Thorin's Trust
by kkolmakov
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield is just like his grandfather. He is jealous and possessive, guarding his most precious treasure, and he grew wise enough to understand that it is no gem. Will the Elvenking Thranduil triumph this time though? They both desire that which gives life to Erebor. Which of the two Kings will be victorious and will seize the Gem of Erebor? *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am overwhelmed by the desire to describe what happens with Wren when, expecting Dain, she is kidnapped by a band of motley criminals and saved by Thranduil, the Lord of Woodland Realm. After a horrible misunderstanding she is abandoned by her beloved King Under the Mountain and left in Mirkwood for a few months. Her heart is broken in separation from her two older children and her unreasonable jealous husband, who is unaware of her expecting of their third child. **

**I was shortly describing this page in Thorin and Wren's story in "Thorin's Word A Day" #7 and #20 ("Thorin's Timeline" can also be used for reference, it's constantly updated). This story just wouldn't leave me alone, I already have a pile of drafts, but I am afraid it will be very painful and draining to write. Poor Wren, and, let's face it, though it is all his fault, poor Thorin!**

**I am in doubt, so I'm posting this sample. Let me know what you think! I love Wren, for me she is the best, but is it believable?! Would Thranduil...? Or wouldn't he? :) **

**I am slightly cautious about writing the Elvenking tbh. I like how he came out in other stories, but that will be a completely different matter. **

**Your feedback would be HIGHLY appreciated.**

The cold lips of the Elvenking Thranduil are upon yours. His long, slender fingers lie on your shoulders, and the fragrance of his skin fills your nose, sweet, fresh, redolent of grasses and flowers of Greenwood the Great. Your eyes are wide open, and you see his long black lashes descending, hiding the brilliant cold irises. Then his narrow palms slide on your shoulder blades and he bends his long virile body, towering over you, enveloping your in his spell-binding presence, pressing his lips more firmly, his kiss still chaste but passionate. Your arms are pressed on the sides of your body, hands fisted, and you are trembling.

He withdraws slowly, his hands still on your back, and the impossible blue eyes open. There is a tender smile on his lips, and his striking elegant features soften. "Filegethiel..." His low hypnotic voice caresses your Elven name. "Guren..."

You start shaking harder. _My heart..._ Such a different man, such a different language, but the same moniker. You feel tears running down your cheeks. His beautiful lips open slightly, and he gently wipes your tears with his thumbs. "Do not cry, guren, let me take away your grief."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here we go! And the story begins. **

**There are couple other stories you can refer to when reading this one but it is not necessary. Wren (Filegethiel in Elvish, Zundushinh in Khuzdul), the healer from Dale, and in this story already the Queen of Erebor and Thorin Oakenshield are the protagonists in all my stories, so that is easy. If you are new, grab any and enjoy :) ****"Thorin's Timeline" is an overview of all my stories about Wren and Thorin, use it as a guide; ****"Thorin's Word A Day" #7 is a sort of prequel to this story, and if you are one of those people who look at the end of the book to find out how the story concludes "Thorin's Word A Day"#20 can be considered an epilogue to this story.**

**I hope, my lovelies, the story will bring you at least a shard of the joy and fun I feel writing it! :)**

You open your eyes and look at the ceiling, a tall dome of branches above you, intertwined, dark bark rough and rugous. Cold light of the autumn sun falls through tall elongated windows, intricate lacy sashes throwing beautiful shadows on the walls around you, and you understand you are in Mirkwood. You turn your head and see the Elvenking Thranduil sitting in a tall chair near your bed.

Your hands fly to your middle. "Your child is save, Lady Filegethiel," The Elvenking's voice is soft and melodic. "Can you not hear the heart?" He rises and walks up to you slowly. You feel tears running down your face. "No, I cannot. Not this time…" You stroke the firmness of your stomach with your palms. "I cannot hear anything this time…" The first violent sobs start shaking your body, and suddenly he sits on the edge of your bed. A long elegant palm lies on your shoulders, and you are shaking harder.

You are trying to reign the tremors, but you are cold, so cold. The shock of the ordeal you have just gone through, having been kidnapped by a band of rogue delinquents on your way to Rivendell, your companions slayed, as well as the constant anguish you have been fighting since you found out of your pregnancy overwhelm you, and you cover your mouth with your palms, attempting to silence the cries.

The strong hands of the Elvenking wrap around your shoulders, and he pulls you into him. Your face is pressed into the silver silk of his robe, his heart beating evenly under your ear. You feel virile, strong body under your cheek, muscles hard and tense, and he stretches a hand and pulls covers to envelop your shoulders.

"It is the child's own magic that does not allow you to hear him as you did with the previous ones, Lady Filegethiel. Your son possesses an astonishing gift." You close your eyes in overpowering relief. "A son..." "Yet another in the line of Durin," you hear a note of mocking in his tone, "King Thorin Oakenshield, I am certain, will be overjoyed."

Your heart clenches when you hear your husband's name. You have not told him, this pregnancy so different from the two joyous ones before. Then, you could feel your children from the earliest days of your parturiency, your magic, though so weak normally, growing and intensifying in those jubilant months. Even when injured in a fight with an Orc pack when expecting Unna, you felt strong, powerful, fearless.

Your third child left your weak, your magic completely dormant. You move away from the Elvenking's embrace and look at your palms. You flex your fingers but the familiar golden spark does not come. There are soft bandages around your wrists covering the cuts and bruises from the shackles they put on you in Framsburg. You gasp, dull ache pulling at your tendons when you move your hands.

Thranduil's cold long fingers gently encircle your wrists, and you feel the pain in them fade. You lift your eyes at him and give him a shaky smile. "Has a message been sent to Erebor about my rescue?" He lets go of your hands and reaches for a goblet on the table near the bed. You take it gratefully.

"I have sent a messenger to Erebor, the news will reach the King Under the Mountain in five days." You nod and sip the fragrant tonic from your goblet.

The tangy taste of elderberry leaves essence and royal fern bite your tongue. Another flavour mixed in it is unfamiliar but you have read enough herbal books to make an assumption. "Lasbelin leaf, my lord?" He hikes up his stunning black eyebrows and smiles. "You do not seize to amaze me, Lady Filegethiel. Is there a limit to your knowledge and curiosity?" You smile back and for the first time in months you feel tension leaving your body.

He tilts his head and his eyes slide from your face to your shoulders covered in luscious silks from your bed. "If you require more warmth I can ask for a wood stove to be brought to your chambers." "I am grateful, my Lord," you remember the demands of decorum, "And forgive me. I have not yet thanked you for my rescue and your hospitality."

"I have to admit, hiril vuin, finding you in that filthy burrow was terrifying if not for the spectacle that opened to my eyes when I stepped in that room," you are surprised to hear that his mesmerizing voice is laced with impish smile. "With a bloodied blade, locks flaming, you looked rather dashing. I almost felt my interference was unnecessary." You look at his astounded. Can the Elvenking be jesting? His face as if carved out of cold marble seems softer in its stunning lines, the corners of the striking curved lips curl up.

"And your blade, hiril vuin," you finally notice the moniker. _Beloved lady… _When has he started calling you this? He gets up and walks to the window. Your possessions are carefully displayed on a tall table. You hand flies to your neck. Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum is gone from your collar bones. The Elvenking picks up the dagger you had had hidden in your sleeve. "Forged in Gondolin, I would assume. The kin to King Thorin's sword, Orcrist. It is always a surprise to notice how many treasures of my people have passed into the possession of the Dwarves." His tone is suddenly cold. You diplomatically keep quiet.

His slender fingers slide along the cold argent blade, and the expression on his face is almost tender. He lowers the blade and picks up another object. You gasp. The opals of your necklace gleam in his hands. "That, on the other hand, is definitely Dwarven work." "Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum," you pronounce the name reverently. "The symbol of your betrothal, I presume." You nod. "I find the traditions of my people to exchange rings to be less oppressive and demanding," he lifts the opulent necklace in his hands, and you shiver. "Such a weight! You should perhaps refrain from wearing it for a while. Your body needs time to recover from your torment and support your child in his growth."

You feel cold shiver running down your spine. Your hands once again lie down on your stomach. "May I ask my Lord to send a healer and a midwife to see me if any are available?" He gives you a slow nod. "Of course, hiril vuin, but I assure you, your son is healthy and striving." He approaches your bed again. He tilts his head, and his eyes are on your stomach. "May I?.." His voice is reverent, and you do not hesitate. "Of course, my Lord."

A narrow cold palm lies on your stomach and his remarkable eyes widen. "Fascinating…" His look is distant, as if he is listening to a whisper that you cannot hear. "Such an extraordinary gift, such a beautiful child." A bright smile blooms on his stunning face, and he turns his shining eyes to you. "He is a genuine son of Filegethiel, the Gem of Erebor." You smile back, reveling in his warmth and admiration for your unborn son, relieved that your babe is safe and you can finally communicate with him through the blazing icy eyes of the Elvenking Thranduil.


	3. Chapter 3

You sleep for a few hours, and then a young Elven maiden brings you dinner. After heavy, meat filled food in Erebor, fragrant stew of root vegetables and herbs is a treat. Served with fresh soft bread, it is light, rejuvenating, and you enjoy it in your bed. You are offered a bath afterwards, and it is a bliss. Warm water with flowers and essences surrounds you, you close your eyes, and let your body forget the weight and the tension.

You lower yourself in the studs of the soapbark foam, only your face showing on the surface, and the silence calms you down, lulls you. Your palms slide on your round stomach, and for the first time since you realized you are expecting again, you feel at peace. When you first started suspecting, a horror grasped your heart. You did not hear the beating heart as you did with Thror and Unna, you could not reach your babe's mind, and you remembered all those expecting mothers who cried in your study, when they would come and see as a healer and a midwife. panic and constant worry for your babe filled you. The reassurance from the Elvenking allowed you to finally accept the fact that you are to become a mother again.

Another son… Another in the line of Durin, what will he be like? Dark haired, blue eyed, yet another miniscule replica of his father? You smile and let your thoughts dwell on your husband. You need to tell him as soon as possible, he was so concerned when you hastily demanded to leave to Rivendell. You needed to talk to King Elrond, seek his advice, as you promised many years ago to the Istari known as Gandalf the Grey. You remember his low soft voice, "If ever you notice drastic changes in your magic, seek me immediately. Or find a way to consult Lord Elrond." The magic is gone, and you were on your way.

Your thoughts leap to the day of the assault, and you jerkily sit up in the tub. You do not wish to think about the blood of the Dwarves from your guard in the dirt of the road, of the filthy hands grabbing you and dragging you to the ruins of Framburg, of the bandits' leader and his heinous plans for your body. You shudder and hastily step out of the bath.

You wrap yourself in silken night dress and a robe placed for you near the bath, and revel in the airy loose wear of the Elven attires. Your dresses in Erebor are heavy, many layers of velvet with embroidery adorning them. As much as you attempt to be stern and demure in your attire, you respect the customs of your melhekh.

You leave your hair splayed on your shoulders. You see a small leaf shaped clasp that was obviously put for you on the table. You pin two thick strands from the sides of your face at the back of your head, letting the copper curls bounce freely on your shoulder blades.

The room you were placed in is at the higher level of the Elvenking's Halls, and you step out at a balcony, all Mirkwood displayed in front of you. The eerie dark forest, the foliage of the ancient trees embracing each other with thick knotted branches, lit by lanterns and rare beams of sunlight peeking through the gaps in leafage would be a sad and frightening view, if not for the strange feeling of a breathing, awake presence in it. Even without your magic you feel the life force running through the veins of Mirkwood, filling its air, lingering in the lacy shadows of the forest.

A gentle voice calls you name, and you turn around. A maid has escorted three Elves into your parlour, and you step back into your rooms. The Elvenking is accompanied by a tall Elf, who you presume is a healer, his look slightly haughty but respectful, and a slightly shorter female Elf, whose beauty stuns you.

The healer's examination is short, he inspects your bruises on the wrists and knees, changes bandages and applies balms. He attentively inspects your eyes and his palms feel very pleasant on your neck while he listens to your pulse. He is concerned with your fatigue and exhaustion and suggests a few draughts. He promises to send them to you and pleased with your obedient and attentive deference he leaves. You wish he would stay longer to exchange knowledge, but you are also impatient to talk to the midwife.

Dulindil, the midwife, is laughing at the astounding parallels. Her name is derived from the Elvish word for nightingale, and you can see sincere curiosity behind her calm professionalism. She gently presses her beautiful palms onto your stomach, and her brows fly up. "A half Dwarven child, and with so much gift in him already," she gives out a delighted silver laugh. "How long have your previous pregnancies lasted, my lady?" "Sixteen moons," you think of your two older children and smile. "The prince and princess were born precisely on the set date." She shakes her head, "Even Elven babies tend to be less polite." You both laugh, professional jesting immediately recognized between you.

She stays for an hour, your conversation easy and endlessly jumping from story to story. She wants to hear more of your children, and you are more than happy to oblige. You miss them dearly.

At some point the Elvenking returns to your room and politely joins the conversation. You tell a funny story of how Unna would disappear from her nursery driving her nannies to madness, and how no one still knows how she managed to escape. You see a soft luminous smile on King Thranduil's lips. "I am afraid parents' worry never goes away," his low voice is mesmerizing, "After all these hundreds of years I am still concerned with my son's disappearances." Legolas Greenleaf is so little of a lost child that you cannot help but laugh. Judging by a slightly self-satisfied smile, that was the result King Thranduil was aiming for. He lowers his head and then tilting his head he lifts his eyes at you. They are scintillating and tender.

Dulindil bids her goodbye and promises to visit you the next day. She lowers her face to your stomach and whispers something in Sindarin. You laugh again. She looks at you in surprise. "Do not take offense in my merriment, honourable maiden, it is just that I do exactly the same thing, I talk to the babes in their mothers' wombs." You give her a mischievous smile. "But I do not believe I flirt with them that shamelessly. As a mother I am slightly concerned that you are calling my son the Stag of Erebor." She blushes, and you laugh harder. "For the virility, and the strength, and the chestnut hair the colour of the stags' fur, my lady," she is laughing herself, "and I was not aware you are familiar with this dialect of Sindarin."

"Lady Filegethiel possesses astonishing talent in languages and healing, Dulindil," King Thranduil is standing a bit to the side, his arms behind his back, his tone warm, "and not only for a Dwarf." You turn to him and feign reproach on your face. You can see he does not believe your pretense. Dwarves are indeed often reluctant to educate themselves on other cultures. You shake your head, the eternal animosity between the two races always puzzling to you.

The midwife leaves, and the King lingers. You are enjoying the peace and the surprising comfort of his presence. "I'll let you repose, hiril vuin. But before I leave allow me to join you at the breakfast tomorrow. Perhaps, you would allow me to accompany you afterwards, the healer suggested you take walks to rejuvenate your body." You smile and nod to him courteously.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a scream. You are fighting the filthy, lecherous hands of the leader of the bandits, and then you feel his hot blood rushing down you hands, pouring on your stomach. You are screaming and thrashing, when a pair of strong arms envelops you, and the fresh grassy smell of King Thranduil's skin fills your nose. You press into him, his body strong and unwavering. He is murmuring in Sindarin, his palm brushing your hair, and the tremours subside. He starts rocking you gently from side to side, and you are drifting away. "Sleep, Filegethiel, sleep, Lachwen..." _Sleep, Flamemaiden..._


	4. Chapter 4

The next six days pass in the same manner. You share the breakfast with the Elvenking, your conversations always easy and captivating. You are often joined by the prince, and you feel your friendship budding, though you have not had a chance to spend any time together previously. He is surprisingly un-Elvish in his interests, and you have a long discussion regarding the renowned Dwarven art of forgery. You tell the stories of your younger nephew by marriage and his talent for archery, the noble pursuit Legolas shares interest in. You might also be slightly enjoying the well-hidden jealousy that clouds the prince's brow.

That day during your usual walk with the King, you two start one of those conversations when two people pretend they are talking hypothetically but they both know precisely what lies beneath the surface of their words. "I am happy that Dulindil could be of assistance to you, hiril vuin," you have accepted the moniker by now, "After all one can hardly predict what a child of two races would go through. Unless one has already observed two." He smiles slightly. You stroke your stomach. "But it must be hard and rare for people of two races to reach such concord as you have with the King Under the mountain for such child to even arrive into this world. Especially when one in the pair is a Dwarf."

You hide a small smile. "Can you imagine, my lord, how much such couple would have to endure if the other one was an Elf?" He looks at your from the corner of his eye. You feign innocence. "Such relationships would probably do not last." "Well," you pick up a fern twig from the ground and twirl it in your fingers, "If their bond is strong enough, they will overcome all possible obstacles and will be together."

He stops and looks at the distance, at his realm. "And if one of them has a duty before her Kingdom?" "Can not her position be filled by other when she leaves her Kingdom to be with her beloved?" You think of the copper hair of Tauriel, the Captain of Border Guard of Mirkwood, mixing with the dark curls of your younger nephew. They were not very discreet during your previous official visit to Mirkwood.

Suddenly the Elvenking's grows cold and distant. "And if it cannot be filled by anyone but her? If she cannot leave her home and be with the man whose heart she possesses?" You understand he is not speaking of Tauriel and Kili anymore, and you wonder if he is harbouring some romantic interest for an unattainable woman himself. You frown. Elves are known to love once, marry for life and never take another spouse even in the widowhood. And yet you think you see a shadow of longing in King Thranduil's eyes.

You stay silent, out of respect for his momentary loss of control, and soon he turns to you, with a warm grateful smile on his lips, obviously having reigned his calm. You continue your walk, herbs being a much safer topic.

After your walks you repose in your chambers and spend the rest of the day in the large library you were given access to. For you it is the best of gifts, and sometimes a maid has to come and remind you to change for dinner. You share yet another meal with the King, and then you repose.

And then every night you wake up, weeping and shaking. If your screams are not loud enough for the King to know you are awake, you try to suppress the cries, hiding your face into the pillow. But the Elven senses are so much sharper than those of Men, and soon enough your are pressed into the ample body of the Elvenking. His long arms are wrapped around your frame. Long slender fingers are stroking your hair, and you take shuddering breaths. You never return his embrace, but you welcome it. His powerful build, strong arms and even breathing calm you down. You would hate for anyone else to find out about your nightmares. He takes them away and never mentions them during the day.

Sometimes he stays, sitting on the edge of your bed, your conversation quiet and unhurried, your older children and the unborn son the most common topic. He tells you of the changes in your son and his magic that he senses, and you close your eyes and allow the sleep to envelop you again. Nightmares never return after that.

On the seventh day of your stay in Mirwood you are reading in the library, when the door opens and the King comes in. His face is reserved and his hands are locked behind his back. You have learnt to recognise it as a sign of disquietude for him. "My lord?" You close the book and turn on the settee you are sitting on to look at him. He gestures on the seat near you, and you nod. He lowers his long body on it.

Everything in his house is too tall for you. When you walk near him, your eyes are on the height of his sternum, below the intricate clasp on his collar, or you have to lift your face to meet his icy gaze. The chairs and beds are high, you have to climb on them rather gracelessly. Even the presumably low settee you are occupying right now, does not allow your feet touch the ground. He on the other hand stretches his long powerful legs in the middle of the reading area.

"I have sought you, hiril vuin, to talk to you about your nightmares," his tone is soft but you flinch. You feel ashamed, never before have you been incapable of reigning your emotions thusly. You also feel like you are a bothersome guest, and you do not wish to express ingratitude towards your gracious host. You lower head. "Forgive me, my Lord, I regret all the disturbance I have caused you..."

A slender pale hand suddenly picks up yours. "Filegethiel," his voice is magnetic, and almost against your will you lift your eyes at him, "Allow me to help you. Confide in me." The second palm is immobile on the silk of the seat and you feel grateful. Any more contact and you would have felt trapped, dominated, but his slight coldness and his reserve make you feel calm, safe, inviolable.

"I see the kidnappers, how they dragged me to the ruins, how they brought me to their leader, and..." You voice wavers but you will yourself to speak calmly, "He did not have time to assault me, but I believe that was his intention." The long fingers wrapped around yours twitch, but his face remains passive. It makes it so much easier to talk, and you press his fingers gratefully. "He knew all about me, my name and my titles, the names of my children…" You close your eyes. "I felt vulnerable... and with no magic I was. And then he made remarks..." You say it and then stop yourself. There is no need to make the King feel as indignified as you were. "What remarks?"

You chew on your lips, a long forgotten habit from your young years. Queens do not bite their bottom lips when they are distraught. "Among other things he hinted that they are rumours of my marital infidelity. And he insinuated that I would not consider his proposition that insulting and revolting since such are my habits..." You leave the fact that the bandit accused you of having a liaison with both the Lord of Rivendell and the King of Woodland Realm unspoken.

The King gets up on his feet and walks to a wall. His back is turned to you, wide shoulders and strikingly narrow waist tense. "Was he insinuating that the mentioned infidelity was the point of your visit to Rivendell?" You are surprised by his question. "Among other things, yes, but I assure, my Lord…"

"Stop," his tone is sharp, and you hike up your brows, "I would feel offended if you felt you had to disprove such treacherous lie to me, Lady Filegethiel." He turns around and his expression seems momentarily pained.

He sits near you again, and you stretch your hand to him. He takes it in both his hands and lowers his lips to your knuckles. "Forgive me for my emotional response, but I felt we know each other enough to understand that I would never have believed such falsehood."

You nod and smile to him. "My lady, you need to address your fears, your nightmares, you have to understand what brings them," you frown, "If not for yourself, then for your child. You need rest, and you need peace. So think about it, honourable Lady Filegethiel, what frightened you so much in Framsburg?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Firstly, I would like to comment that **_**hiril vuin**_**, though literally meaning **_**beloved lady**_**, is used by Elves when addressing any woman with reverence and respect, not necessarily the one you harbour secret love for *wink***

**Secondly, Wren does not see signs ever! (****Just4Me****, thank you for your reviews!) She thinks she is unassuming, unattractive and a boring married woman these days, and it took her several years to start suspecting that the King Under the Mountain might be "slightly" interested. And that's after their first, heated kiss in the linen pantry! Oh, wait, I haven't posted that story yet! :) Well, you have something to look forwards to, my lovelies :) What to say of an immortal supreme being like Thranduil!**

You look at his long fingers locked around your hand and chuckle mirthlessly. "Besides the obvious, my Lord? Besides being dragged on my knees through a stone yard and being almost assaulted and gutted by a filthy urmu?" You spit out a Khuzdul swearing. Somehow it is easier to curse in your new native tongue. The blue eyes of the Elvenking are intense, and you feel it is surprisingly easy to think when his whole focus is on you. For once in your life you do not internally shy from someone's attention concentrated on you.

"I felt terrified that my whole life can apparently be reduced to a few phrases, to a few names and titles. That I can be so simply described as the wife of Thorin Oakenshield, the mother of Thror, son of Thorin, and Unna, the daughter of Thorin, the Queen of Erebor, Khazad Bahinh, the Friend-lady of the Dwarves. All that I am was determined by the fact that the King Under the Mountain has inexplicably chosen me as his yasith," you hardly notice that you habitually use the word for _wife _in Khuzdul, "And once it was taken from me, my guards slayen, I became just a trophy, a toy to be broken to inflict vengeance upon my husband. I am nothing but his wife and a mother for yet another of his sons," you take your hand out of his cool ones and wrap them around your middle. "Even my name is not mine to bear. Have you known, my Lord, that Filegethiel is a name I was given by a drunkard of a chief healer during my first service in Dale? For the hair, as you have correctly assumed when we met for the first time."

The Elvenking tilts his head and gazes at you. There is no pity in his eyes, and you take a relieved shuddering breath. "All I have ever had of my own was my magic. You have never asked, my Lord, but I know the interest you share with the Istari and Lord Elrond in my gift. It is not of this land, brought from across the seas by a man with the hair of the colour of flames, weak and changeable in me, but apparently so strong in my son," you press your hands tighter to your firm stomach and feel tears running down your face. "Will he also be defined as a son of Thorin Oakenshield? Will he be allowed to develop his gift the way he deems right?"

You are not talking to the Elvenking anymore, you have almost forgotten he is sitting near you. Suddenly his large slender hands lie on your shoulders, and he slightly turns you to face him. His features are coloured with passion, curved lips slightly open, and the impossible eyes are fervid and burning.

"I pledge to you, my lady, that I will protect your son and will do everything in my power to allow him a chance to reign his gift and not to be the slave of his birth." You recoil from him. "You might not feel that it is true now, my lady, but his parentage will become a curse and a blessing for your son," the King's face is suddenly sad, "He will forever be torn between being the son of Thorin Oakenshield and the son of Lachwen, the Flamemaiden of Enedwaith."

You give him an attentive look. "How do you know where I was born, my Lord?" He gives you a small smile, the fervour of just a few instants ago completely gone from his cold elegant face, his hands on his knees again in a refined gesture. "You are an oddity in this world, hiril vuin, the wisest and most powerful men of this world have been slightly concerned by you. And whatever they say, you are not in the very least _just_ the wife of Thorin Oakenshield," his voice is coloured with mocking emphasis when he pronounces your husband's name.

"Lachwen," you repeat the new moniker. How many more of them will you acquire through your life? He smirks. "Such is the name my people have given you after the Battle of Erebor," you look at him in shock, "Have you forgotten, my lady, some of them have fought in it as well?"

"My guard was sent to the battle to assist King Thorin against that rogue army of Orcs where you have demonstrated your future worth as the Queen of Erebor. The lethal golden ribbons slithering and snaking around you, slaying your enemies and shielding your wounded King are not to be forgotten by my warriors. Do I understand it right that is what made the King propose to you?"

You feel a twinge of apprehension towards the Elvenking. That is not how it happened. You are not a horse to be chosen by your speed and prowess. You remember the night in the inn in Dale when you pressed your lips to the greedy hot mouth of the King Under the Mountain, your mutual fervour so vehement that nothing mattered that night, neither his title, nor your magic, not even the Kingdom Under the Mountain that is his eternal burden and gift, none of that mattered for you two. You smile and give the King a dismissive look, "I am afraid not, my Lord, you do not understand it at all."

You two are sitting in silence. You are contemplating your son's destiny, the Elvenking seems to be absorbed in his own thoughts. You remember yourself and gently touch his hand on his knee. "Forgive me, my Lord, I yet again forgot my manners. _Goheno nin_," you apologise in Sindarin, and he looks down at you askew. "I am eternally grateful that you offer your support to my son, and I accept your pledge. He will need it, I am certain."

"Not if his mother will be with him, hiril vuin," he smiles, and you see mischievous glint in his eyes. "I will be with him for as long as Maiar allow me," you feel suddenly sad. How many springs do you have left? Will you see him reach battle age? Will you see him as a strong man with hair of the colour of the fur of a stag?

You lift your eye and see King Thranduil's face contorted in a strange tortured expression. It passes quickly, and he gives you a pleasant but empty smile. You sit in silence for a bit longer, and then he sighs. "Your magic does not define you either, hiril vuin, nothing does and everything does at the same time." You hide a smile. You hear Thorin's velvet voice in your head, "As my friend Master Baggins always says, it's unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will answer both yes and no."

"_Peditham hi sui vellyn?" _You look into his glacial eyes. _Can we speak as friends? _You understand that it is a large step for an Elf, to offer his friendship openly, to a Dwarf, if not by birth but by choice, to determine the bond between you two, and you smile into his eyes, accepting him with gratitude. "_An ngell nin_".

"Allow me to help you, _mellon nin_," he takes your hands again, this time his palms are open, and you cover them with yours. The tips of the long slender fingers feel cold on your wrists, and a shiver runs down your spine. "Close your eyes and think of one day in your life, the day when you were just you and not anything else, when you were not a wife, and not a mother, and not a healer, and not a warrior, and not a lover," he speaks in Sindarin and all the words are reverent and pure, and you close your eyes, "when your heart was free and open, when you knew where you were going and what lay on your path that you were leaving behind. Think of that day and see yourself."

Your head swims, and suddenly you see a dusty road leading from the village where your grandmother lived. Your feet are stepping effortlessly on the path, light backpack behind your back, and the whole world lies ahead of you. You do not know where exactly you are going but you are willing to see. And you know what you are leaving behind. There is only death, and an empty house, and in your mother's house, there is a contract waiting in her desk for your hand and your body to be sold to the first to offer enough, and in your grandmother village there are herbs to stop a heart of an unborn child in small sachets, that you threw in a burning stove before leaving. Your heart is light and certain, and the summer wind throws your hair into your face. You push it back and chuckle. For a second the path in front of you was covered by the orange wall, and you think that is how one feels falling face down into a bunch of dandelions.

You open your eyes and feel tears running down your face. "Welcome back, Fielgethiel," he is smiling to you, and impulsively you press yourself into him, your arms sliding around his narrow middle. You feel him taking a sharp deep breath, and immediately you feel ashamed of your effrontery. You move away and feel your cheeks burning. "Forgive me, my Lord, that was outrageously improper of me."

He swiftly gets up, his hands lock behind his back, and he is paler than usual. You feel terrible and berate yourself. You have spent too much time with Dwarves and forgot how other races react to physical contact. Especially Elves, always so cold and distant. You push the thought of his embrace at night into the back of your mind. As composed as he is, you can see that he is high-strung, and even more regret floods you. "_Goheno nin, mellon nin._" You feel that you are using your newly established friendship to force him into forgiving you, but you do genuinely feel sorry for your boldness.

He nods, slightly tilting his head, and forces himself to smile. "No offense was taken, my friend." He gracefully turns and heads to the exit from the library. At the door he halts and turns to you, "Shall I see you at dinner, my lady?" "Of course, my Lord, we have not finished our discussion of the Klamath weed." He gives you a more sincere smile. "You were mistaken in your analysis and still want to discuss it. I admire your persistence, my lady." "Know when you are beaten and learn on your mistakes." You smile and pick up your book again. You think you hear a low chuckle. But surely you are mistaken, Elvenkings do not chuckle playfully.


	6. Chapter 6

The next night passes in peace. You are exhausted in the evening, your eyes closing seemingly before your head is lowered on your pillow. Your dreams are content and vague, forests and green grass under your feet, some half-forgotten fragrances of flowers and herbs of Gondor and Dale. You open your eyes in the morning and smile.

For the first time since you arrived to Mirkwood, you have your morning meal alone. You are rejuvenated, thoroughly enjoying your breakfast. A servant comes and informs that the King regrets that he will not be able to join you for a walk. You thank him and go straight to the library.

After afternoon meal the King joins you in the library. He nods graciously and takes a book from a shelf. He elegantly lowers his long body in a tall chair in the corner, and you take your usual seat by a small desk.

Your conversation is unhurried, sometimes dying for an hour, while you both are absorbed in a book. You exchange short comments, at some point he approaches you with some captivating passage. At another moment you catch him smiling when you are trying to reach a book on the second shelf. You pretend to be scornful, and he smiles slyly. "Everything in your house is made for a giant, my Lord." "Perhaps, everything in your house is just made for a Dwarf, my lady." You chuckle. "Indeed it is. And the height fits me perfectly." He looks you over. "You seem to be right, hiril vuin, by some happy chance your size turned out to be perfect for your family circumstances." You chortle.

The day ends and you are actually happy to go to sleep, for the first time since the kidnapping. The pain comes right after midnight, and you wake up with the scream. "_Edraith enni!_" You are screaming for help, and the door bursts open. The King is clad in a thin tunic and soft trousers, barefoot. You curl in a ball, his hand lies on your back and he is calling servants. In your pain clouded brain you are momentarily surprised at his state of undress. Elves do not sleep, you remember, they spend hours in a meditative waking state to regain their strength. Perhaps they require night attire for that too.

Dulindil rushes in your room. Her hands lie on your stomach, and she is chanting. The pain subsides, and you finally take a deep breath. The King is holding your hand through the treatment. "It is alright, my lady, the pain should be gone", the midwife smiles reassuringly, "Your child was disturbed, the aftereffects of the turmoil you have endured, I am afraid. But he is safe and unharmed."

She stays with you until you fall back asleep. You think the King stays and is standing by the window, his back turned to you, his figure straight and tense, but you cannot tell for certain. As soon as the pain is gone, your eyes start closing.

The next morning you feel content and energetic again, and the day passes as usual. You estimate that the messenger has already reached Erebor and you are hoping to receive an answer in three days. You are hoping for a company of Dwarves to be sent for you. You do not wish to continue your trip to Rivendell, as you feel you have received the council you were seeking from the Elvenking. He has reassured you regarding your child and your magic, and all you wish for now is to be reunited with your family. That evening you fall asleep with a smile on your lips, imagining the face of your husband upon receiving the long overdue happy news.

For the life of you, never will you be able to explain why you wake up that night. There is no nightmare or discomfort, you just open your eyes and stare into the dim light surrounding you. A few lanterns are set around your room, as previously darkness seemed to aggravate your distress. You listen to the sensations in your body but everything is seemingly complacent. You sit up and prod your magic. It is silent, but the strange feeling of unease filling you reminds you of those instances when your magic would be disturbed.

And then you realize that it is not you but the air around you that is full of anguish. It feels as if Mirkwood is in agony, in some sort of pain that spreads through its veins as poison, and you start shaking. You feel the forest lamenting, fighting despair, and you are suddenly terrified. If you did not know better, you would say Mirkwood is mourning a broken heart.

You cannot fight the despair crawling from every corner of your room, and you sob, pressing your hands to your mouth. Thankfully you manage to silence your cries, you would hate to bother your gracious host for some strange unclear anguish. Nonetheless, you cannot seem to reign your feelings, more and more tears running down your face, and to your own dread you feel as if the torment vibrating through the air is responding to your muffled sobs, intensifying, running through the branches of the ancient trees supporting the roof of the Elvenking's Halls. A loud weep escapes you lips, and you see the door opening.

King Thranduil is standing in the doorframe, his pale beautiful face is expressionless, the icy eyes glazed, the sculpted body tense under long attire. You sob, "What is happening?" His eyes scrutinize your face, from the probably red, puffed eyes to the trembling lips. "Can you genuinely feel it, Filegethiel?" He asks in Sindarin, his voice low and grave. "The forest is in distress, in pain…" Your voice is trembling.

"It is not the forest, my lady," he steps closer and you see how pained his eyes are. "My lord?" You cannot explain it but you are suddenly terrified. He sits on the edge of your bed, and the detached expression on his face wavers. There is agony in his eyes, and acute sympathy clenches on your heart. You do not know the reason but you can see his pain. "The scouts came back from the borders of my Kingdom..." You do not let him finish, you throw your arms around his neck. Something in the way his body was inclined towards you told you this time your embrace would be welcome.

For an instant he is immobile, and then his arm lies around your back. The second one flies to the back of your head, cupping it, and he presses his face into your hair. "Filegethiel…" His voice is trembling, and you stroke his nape. Whatever grieves him, you need to reassure him, to provide the comfort, the support of a friend.

The door that he closed behind him bursts open, and you sharply turn your head. The King Under the Mountain is frozen in the door frame in an absurd replication of the Elvenking's position from just a few minutes before. His travel clothes are dirty and disarrayed, face tired, obviously exhausted after a few days of continuous travel.

You feel the Elvenking's body jerk in your embrace, one of his large elegant palms splayed on your shoulder blades, another on your jaw, having slipped when you turned your head. You are kneeling in front of him, the only way your arms could have been wrapped around his neck, his body half turned towards you, seated on the edge of your bed. The Dwarven King sways and takes a wobbly step back. And then he snarls and lunges ahead, the sound of Orcrist sliding out of its sheath deafening in the silent room.


	7. Chapter 7

The Elvenking twirls, in a fluid swift motion, his arms enveloping you, you are suddenly standing on the floor, and he is between you and the charging King Under the Mountain. All you can think of is that you are not sure whom the wide Elven blade is aimed to strike and that you need to protect your child.

Orcrist slashes the bed, you are once again not certain which one of your occupied the silken sheets that are now sliced, the blade now buried deeply, down to the wood of the frame, and with a growl the Dwarven King pulls it out. "Thorin!" You are screaming, but he hardly hears you.

The Elvenking's arm snakes behind him, and it is encircling you. He takes a step back, his strong virile body shielding you, and you see your husband's eyes go even more livid. You think you should step forward, you have done it so many times, bring him back from his rage, remind him it is you, he needs to see and hear you, but for once it is not just you whom you are protecting, and you are petrified.

The Elvenking leaps at him, long pale fingers lock around the clenches calloused ones, and the Elf swirls the King Under the Mountain. The latter stumbles, his rage making him uncoordinated, and slams his back into the wall. The taller man has the disadvantage of having to slouch to control the movements of his opponent, less force can be applied in his grasp. They are locked in a struggle, the silver blade of Orcrist gleaming between them.

You gasp and press one palm to your mouth. You are backing up, another hand splayed on your stomach. The Dwarf lunges ahead again, this time his shoulder at the front of his thrust, and they both fall on the floor. The Elvenking jerks the sword out of his opponent's hands and jumps on his feet. The Dwarf roars and drives his heavy body into the Elf, without any consideration for the blade, Orcrist fortunately lowered in the Elvenking's hands.

They fall out of the room, in an entanglement of limbs, and the Elvenking tumbles down the stairs leading to your guest room. The Dwarf darts after him, dirty Khuzdul swearing on his lips. You rush to the door. The Elvenking is standing again, blood trickling from his nose and a bruise on his cheekbone.

There are a few guards at the bottom of the staircase, and one of them throws a sword to the Elvenking. "Give me my sword and fight like a man!" The Dwarf is jeering through his teeth, a low gnarl of a wounded animal. "No!" Your own voice is a shriek, and for a moment both men are looking at you.

A mad grotesque grin contorts your husband's lips. "I know you would prefer your lover to give me a fast clean death, but he will have to soil his hands before it happens!" You make a step down the stairs. "Stay where you are, Filegethiel!" The Elvenking's voice is ringing with worry.

"Listen to your swain, Zundushinh, you don't want to get accidentally hurt." The King's voice is venom and pain. "Stop, both of you!" You wish you had your magic right now, anything to stop this madness.

"I am not fighting you, Dwarf. Not in front of your hervess_._" "She is not my wife anymore!" The Dwarven King is yelling, and your knees give out. He momentarily turns to you and you see livid hatred in his eyes. '"I do not have a wife! And my children do not have a mother!" You feel as if he buried a blade into your stomach. "And I can see you have already rid yourself of your betrothal symbol, my lady." Your hand flies to your collarbones. Nyrnala is still on the table near your bed.

He turns back to the Elvenking. "Give me my sword, filth!" You see the Elf's eyes make a small movement, signalling something to the guards surrounding them, and an arrow grazes the Dwarven King's cheek. A long red bruise runs on his cheek, and he wipes the blood from it with the back of his hand. "Just as I thought," his lips are yet again twisted in a mad smirk, "you lack all honour, hemeg."

And then he sways and sags on the floor. He is fighting it with a growl, shaking his head, but his lashes flutter and the furious blue eyes close. You understand the arrow was covered in sleep draught, and you lean back on a door. "Take him to the dungeons," the Elvenking passes the swords to the nearest guard and then rushes up the stairs to you. "Are you unscathed, mellon nin?" "What will you do to him?" You have no consideration for decorum at the moment. He sighs and looks you over. You remember yourself. "I am unharmed, but please..."

You look at the guards dragging the unconscious Dwarven King away, and you suddenly start sagging on the floor. The Elf supports you and slowly leads back into the bedroom. Your eyes fall on the bed, and you recoil. "Perhaps a different chamber should be prepared for you, my lady." He turns to call the servants, but you grab his sleeve. "What will you do to him?"

He looks at you and the icy blue eyes are sad. "Let him sleep and rage for a while, my dungeons will withstand, I hope. We will have to talk to him later," you nod, "If he listens." Your heart drops, your experience tells you there is very little hope for any patience or understanding from the jealous King Under the Mountain.

The Elvenking inspects your face, your apprehension probably obvious on your face. "He has no reason not to listen to you, my friend. Have you not been a perfect immaculate wife for him all these years?" You bite your bottom lip. "Oh, I see. That is not the first time the King Under the Mountain makes hasty erroneous assumptions then," King Thranduil's voice is laced with slight mockery, "How can one be so blind towards the character of his own hervess?" He sounds incredulous. You feel suddenly very tired and sink on the edge of the bed. "I will need this other room now, my Lord."

You are lead to another room, and Dulindil comes and examines the baby. You do not talk. She also brings a draught from the healer that you take obediently. Sleep envelops you immediately, and it is dark and deep, no dreams come.

The next morning you open your eyes, bleak light coming through the lacy sashes on the windows. You are staring at the ceiling, you hand absent-mindedly stroking your stomach. He will have to listen, he will listen for the sake of his unborn child. He is a Dwarf, he will not be cruel to his expecting wife. You get up and throw a robe over your night dress. You hastily leave your room, step on a balcony by the entrance of your chambers and run into the Elvenking.

He is standing, frozen and immobile. He is not facing you, his shoulders are tense, and you can see that his narrow elegant hands, locked behind his back, are clenched in an unusual distressed gesture. You start shaking, dark foreboding clasping at your heart. His voice is low and somber, "He is gone. He left this morning." You take a step back. He turns around, and you see sympathy in his eyes. "I swear to you, lady Filegethiel, I tried to talk to him, but my words would only make him more spiteful." Pain pierces your chest, you can not breath, everything swims. You make a mournful noise, the King rushes to catch your sagging body, and you lose consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

You are curled in a tight ball on your new bed, knees pulled to your chest, your stomach small enough so far to allow such position. There are no tears, but neither there are thoughts. You feel empty and broken. He, you cannot pronounce the name in your head, left you here, threw you aside, like a broken toy, like an empty bottle after all ale is drunk. Except the bottle is not empty, and for the thousandth time in the last weeks you wish you could feel your magic connecting to your child.

You are murmuring quietly, loving nonsenses and banalities that every mother bestows her child with. You tell him he is the most wonderful boy in the world, that amad loves him, that he will grow strong and wise, and you will never abandon him. You do not feel any bitterness towards this silent presence in you. Although your other children held endless conversations with you during those sixteen moons that you carried them under your heart, you do not feel that your beloved nidoy, your beautiful boy, is any less your flesh and blood than the two that you have probably lost forever.

That is when tears start falling, the faces of Thror and Unna standing in front of your eyes, the memories of their sturdy little bodies pressed into you, their laughter, their pouts and their smiles slicing your heart like hundreds of knives. You cry and cry, and soon there is no strength left in you. The door silently opens, and Dulindil enters with your draughts. You silently sit up, your disheveled hair hanging around your face, and you see her beautiful face contort in acute sympathy.

You drink the draught and hand her an empty vial back, but instead of taking it, she pulls you into her. You lean into her strong lithe body and close your eyes. "I have realized you probably yearn for physical contact by now, Filegethiel," her voice is sad, "Do Eldar feel cold to you?" You chuckle against your will. "Only temperature wise." She looks into your eyes. "We are but the same temperature, Filegethiel." "Yes, but Dwarves are not. Do you not feel the heat coming from my son?" She places her palm on your stomach, and an enigmatic smile adorns her lips. "He is indeed full of fervour, Filegethiel. But also so much wisdom and serenity. What a marvel..." She looks into your eyes and then presses her forehead to yours. "Do not cry, Filegethiel, I know how your heart breaks that you cannot speak to him and see him as you did with your other children. But you will have all those years to come with him." She sounds almost wistful, and you smile. "Are you envying me, Dulindil?" "I am, mellon nin. He is beautiful."

You think of your other two children, so Dwarven in every little thing, so full of fire and anger, so stubborn, and tears fall again. Will you ever see them again? She is smiling to you sadly. "Do you wish to talk about what transpired between your King and King Thranduil last night? All Mirkwood was distraught, its soul tormented. The forest is the King, Filegethiel. His pain is the pain of Mirwood. And we all felt it." You lower your head. "Their conflict is older than any of us, Dulindil. It is older than the two Kings themselves." She presses her lips. "And you and your King?" Her tone is cautious. "My King made it rather clear that he does not want me to return to his home." She gasps. She must be genuinely distressed to lose control over her expression so much. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, lips tremble.

"But your children..." You wrap your arms around your middle. "I am not their mother anymore. And this one..." You wipe your tears, "He is not aware." She gasps again and grabs your hands. For the first time she is not reigning her strength, and her grasp is very forceful. Elves are so much stronger than Men. Then she realizes her mistake and loosens her grip. "Forgive me, Filegethiel, I was not careful." "It is alright, my friend." You press her fingers in return.

"What are you to do now?" You do not know. You need to think. You remember the few times in the past when you were left to your own devices. You do not doubt your capability but you are with child and traveling would be difficult. You also dread leaving Dulindil and the Elvenking, they are your only way of communicating with your son. And wherever you travel, it will only make the distance between you and your children greater. You do not allow yourself to think of your husband. These thoughts have to wait.

She is pondering something, your fingers still enveloped in her delicate hands. "What was the reason of your discord with your husband, Filegethiel?" You recognise the professional tone that you use with your patients yourself. You lift your chin and give her a dignified impenetrable smile. "Not something draughts and discussing it can solve." She looks into your eyes attentively. "You are a Queen indeed, Filegethiel. I sometimes seem to forget it." You smile to her again. She nods and gets up. "Call me any time you need me, mellon nin." "I will, and thank you, my friend."

She leaves and you get up from your bed. It is breakfast time, and Dulindil is right. Even though your Kingdom and your family were taken from you, you are still the Queen of Erebor. You take a bath, change into a luscious Elven dress, brush your hair and turn to a table by the window. Your necklace is there, but you also see an intricate circlet on it that was not there before. It is argent, an elegant piece, no gems and seemingly no weight. You pick it up and place it on your curls. You can hardly feel it. You look at yourself in the mirror. It is delicate, nothing ostentatious, small forged leaves lying in your hair. You straighten your back and leave your chambers.

You enter the dining chambers and see the King standing by the window. He is facing away from you, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He turns at the rustle of your dress, and his eyes run over you. The dress is pale puce coloured, with a gauzy cape, and two long ribbons of embroidery running down on its sides. Out of your Dwarven dress that was cleaned, mended and returned to you after your kidnapping, you obviously look so much smaller. You have previously politely refused the dresses that were offered to you but you cannot bring yourself to put your velvet today. It feels heavy, too many memories weaved into its fabric.

"How are you faring, my friend?" "I am well, my Lord. I have seen Dulindil this morning, she reassured me that my child is healthy as well." He slightly tilts his head, appraising your regal set of the head and straight shoulders. Then he gestures at the table, and you two start your meal. There is no conversation today, but you do not seek any.

You know the time to talk will come at the walk. And just as you thought, his low voice shakes you out of your thoughts while your feet carefully step on the tall bridges of Mirkwood. "Filegethiel..." You turn to him. He stops and is towering over you. You have to drop your head back to see his face. "I offer you my help. I offer you to stay in my house until you decide to leave for one reason or another. You and your son can stay in Mirkwood indefinitely, you would be my most desired guests," he bestows you a small bow.

You have obviously pondered your options, and you cannot see any other way. But on the other hand, the thought of being at the mercy of the Elvenking makes you shiver. You cannot explain it, but something has changed in his eyes since last night. And it was not the fight with the King Under the Mountain. It was the moment when he entered your room, his eyes pained and, although you cannot be sure, his hands trembling.

You return his bow. "I'd be honoured, my Lord. And I am grateful for your endless support and understanding." Your eyes shift in the bruise on his right cheekbone. It is deep and stands out on the perfect marble skin of his noble face. He bows again, and you understand that there will be no more discussion. You two continue your usual walk, no words exchanged, your heart heavy, and thoughts dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Five weeks pass, and you settle in your life in Mirkwood. You share all your meals with the Elvenking, go for walks with him, and somehow unnoticeably for you he begins to seek your council. At the beginning of the fifth moon of your parturiency you realize that he spends most of his time in the library with you. The awareness comes when you find both of you bent over a map on a table, his long elegant finger following the line of the Forest River. You are arguing his strategy of placing his guards, and surprisingly he concedes. "Be it your will, Filegethiel," he flops, though gracefully, in a chair and crosses his arms on his chest. If such word could be applied to an ancient immortal being of sheer starlight, he is pouting. And then you realize the erroneousness of what is happening. You are not his Queen and not his Counsellor. You step back and give him a sober look over.

You realize that there was a trap set for you in Mirkwood and you stepped in it willingly and readily. Like the web of the Giant Spider, Mirkwood and its King have enveloped you into an escapable net. Everything you ever wished for yourself has been given to you, and you have not noticed how your life aligned itself with the beating pulse of the Greenwood the Great.

Three days after the fight with your King Dulindil came to you in the morning and offered to join her on her rounds. She proposed that seeing other expectant mothers would elevate your spirits, and you agreed. There are five women carrying a child in the Elvenking's Halls at the moment, and you become friends with all of them. You suspect that Dulindil has something to do with it, but also your child seems to fascinate most of the Silvan Elves. Some are interested in your story as well, and you gladly share it, obviously emitting the reason for your prolonged stay in Mirkwood. You are grateful that most do not ask much about Erebor. That would be too painful to speak about. You speak of your children, forcing yourself to choose the words wisely, as if meaning that you will see them very soon. You talk about the magic of your third child, and you are often asked about your own gift.

Then you start picking up herbs with Dulindil, sort them and dry them, as well as prepare draughts with Lumorn, the healer. You have though slightly distant but respectful relationships, your readiness to learn and trust in his judgement making him willing to share his vast knowledge with you.

You start wearing light Elven dresses, their silken, gentle fabrics caressing your pale skin, always so sensitive and distraught in layered Dwarven attires. Your hair grows out, and you let it splay on your back, heavy intricate Dwarven hairstyles and the headache they used to bring forgotten. Many Silvan Elves have the hair of the same colour, but none has the unruly curls that form a cloud around your head. The air in Mirkwood is damp, especially now, in the early months of Fall, and the little curls around your face are uncontrollable. Elven children enjoy playing with your hair and braiding flowers into them. One little girl makes you a crown of Autumn leaves and red berries.

You are standing in front of the Elvenking, and your heart is beating painfully in your chest. He lifts his extraordinary eyes at you, and his lips twitch. When did he become so open in his emotions in front of you? "What is it, Filegethiel?" His voice is laced with tender concern.

"Do you feel triumphant, my King?" Your voice is cold steel, your rage white and piercing. "My lady?" He lifts his brows. "Now that your clever plan of revenge upon the King Under the Mountain has been executed, do you feel victorious?" You notice with pride that you are not shaking. The puzzle pieces finally fit together, and you are livid.

"You took away his wife and his son, you tied me to your forest and yourself, you turned me into a pathetic imitation of your people," you gestures around the gauzy silver dress you are wearing, "I have nowhere to go, and you were oh so kind to me," your voice is increasingly venomous, "that leaving your home and all my academic pursuits would be such an ingratitude. Who will finish transcribing these recipes of I leave? Who will finish stocking the herbal storage with Dulindil if I am not here? Who will accompany you on your walks and discuss the boustrophedon of Sarati manuscripts?" You clench your fists and stare at him.

His lashes flutter, and he lowers his face. "Filegethiel, I was not aware that you feel trapped in my home." "I was not, until just now when I realized that you had planned it all, my Lord. Did you not come to my bedroom knowing that my husband had entered your lands?"

You have been harbouring the suspicion in your heart since the first morning after that dreadful night. If Mirkwood is the King, and the King is Mirkwood, how did he not know when the company of Dwarves crossed his borders?

He gets up, and you take a step back. He tilts his head and gives you an inscrutable smile. "I find it rather ironic, hiril vuin, that you tend to make the same mistake that cost your husband the presence of his wife and his unborn child in his life. It seems the inclination to make hasty assumptions comes with the crown of Erebor."

He does not deny it though. You take a deep breath in. "Did you know he was coming for me?" "I did," he makes another step towards you, "But I did not expect to him to reach the Halls before the next day." You remember his words before you threw your arms around him. _The scouts came back from the borders of my Kingdom... _He knew.

You shake your head. "Is your hatred towards Erebor that severe?" "I do not possess any," his voice is haughty, "Neither have I any animosity towards the King Under the Mountain." "Then why?" You are so agitated that you make a step towards him.

He looks at you like at an interesting specimen, with the same expression you saw him studying some rare plant. "You are indeed an oddity, Filegethiel, wife of Thorin Oakenshield, Queen of Erebor, so wise, so talented, so blind." He steps closer, and you are terrified. It is a walk of a predator, and suddenly you remember who is in front of you.

A Sinda, a Grey Elf, son of Oropher, the founder of the Greenwood the Great, the hero of the Battle of Dagorlad and the Siege of Barad-dur, the ruler of the Silvan Elves... You can suddenly see the ancient force and the ancient wrath in the Elf of the Twilight, and you start shaking.

He gives you a sly smile. "I did nothing but provided you with what your heart desired, bereth nin." You recoil. _My Queen… _But Sindarin is an elusive language. The same word could stand both for a queen, and for a wife. "Are you not content in my home? Among your beloved trees, and herbs, and people who cherish your talent and your wisdom?" He steps even closer, and your back hits the wall of the library.

But then you remember who you are. His voice sounds in your head, _You are not in the very least just the wife of Thorin Oakenshield. _You know that he is wrong now, because that is exactly who you are, you are the Queen of Erebor, the wife of the King Under the Mountain, Khazad Bahinh, the Friend-lady of the Dwarves, mother of Thror, son of Thorin, and Unna, daughter of Thorin. As such were your choices and such was your path that you took willingly and with a certain heart. You lift your chin and smirk.

"I have never been more desolate in my entire life, my Lord." He winces and sways away from you. "My heart is in agony, every muscle in my body is in pain, every fiber of my soul and every thought is a torture. You tore me away from my beloved and my children. You as much as slayed me, my Lord."

He suddenly leans in and his face is an inch away from yours. "I did no such thing," he is hissing, "Your fool of a husband threw away his treasure! All I did is tried to preserve it and cherish it." You are staring in his eyes and momentarily wonder how you could have thought them cold. The ice in them is burning and charring. "It is not my fault that he finds it so easy to deny himself the Gem of Erebor. Because I do not."

You are taking short shuddered breaths. "Why did you come to my room that night, my Lord? What was transpiring in your forest?" You need him to say it, you are so tired of not understanding. "As every night before it, guren," his low hypnotic voice wavers around the new moniker, "I came to provide comfort and spend the fleeting moments with you. That night I also needed some comfort in return. When I knew you are to be taken away from me so soon, I had to see you for the last time." His eyes are searching your face. "You are dying, Filegethiel, as every mortal being in this world every second of every minute you are fading away, your mortal spirit will depart, and there is so little time left. I am not that patient. I cannot wait."


	10. Chapter 10

"I have committed no crime against you, my lady. Nor have I planned to," he straightens up but does not step back. His chest, clad in a narrow silver raiment, is in front of your eyes. "My only fault is my greed for your time, guren." _My heart..._ Such a different man, such a different language, but the same moniker. His voice softens, and you think that this Elvenking is more dangerous than the scheming villain you drew in your mind.

You feel tears running down your cheeks. There is no villain in this story, only confusion and misunderstanding, and pain and hurt pride, and no escape. Had it been for the bile of King Thranduil that you have lost the trust of your King, you could have fought it, explained yourself, a mutual adversary would have united you, an uncovered dark plot around you would have proven your innocence. What do you have now to present as your testament?

And then you berate yourself for foolish hope. Deep in your heart you know the King Under the Mountain would not have listened whatever you had to say. _I do not have a wife! And my children do not have a mother! _You cover your face with your hands and silently weep. All hope is lost, you lost Thorin forever.

For the first time since that night you pronounce his name in your mind, you allow the memories come back, you see his beloved face. Distorted in violent rage, blind and deaf to anything besides his pain and rampage… Would he have wept if Orcrist indeed had stricken you as you momentarily suspected he aimed to? Does he grieve now?

"Filegethiel, you cannot despair. You have a son to care for." King Thranduil's voice is tender, and you nod. The narrow elegant palm lies on your stomach, and you allow it. "Stay in my house, guren. Let me protect and treasure you and your son."

And then the cold lips of the Elvenking are upon yours. His long, slender fingers lie on your shoulders, and the fragrance of his skin fills your nose, sweet, fresh, redolent of grasses and flowers of Greenwood the Great. Your eyes are wide open, and you see his long black lashes descending, hiding the brilliant cold irises. Then his narrow palms slide on your shoulder blades and he bends his long virile body, towering over you, enveloping your in his spell-binding presence, pressing his lips more firmly, his kiss still chaste but ardent. Your arms are pressed on the sides of your body, hands fisted, and you are trembling.

He withdraws slowly, his hands still on your back, and the impossible blue eyes open. There is a tender smile on his lips, they open slightly, and he gently wipes your tears with his thumbs. "Do not cry, guren, let me take away your grief."

Your heart slows its frantic beating, and you think you understand finally. You lift your eyes at the widowed King of Woodland Realm. "Forgive me, mellon nin, I had no right of accusing you of the schemes I thought you were guilty of." Your voice is calm, and you see his face grow guarded. "And forgive me for the pain I caused you. If indeed that agony I felt in your forest that night is the pain you carried in your heart at the perspective of being parted from me, I regret causing it." His eyes widen, and he tilts his head.

You sigh. You feel like a dark veil falls off your eyes, and acute pity fills your heart. "And forgive me as I cannot give you what you desire." You look into his eyes and give him a sad smile.

He makes two steps back, and his hands lock behind his back. "And what is it I desire in your judgement, honourable Filegethiel?" His tone is haughty. "I cannot pledge myself to you, my Lord," you shake your head and give a mirthless chuckle, "Had my husband's suspicion been right and indeed there had been a liaison and I had given my heart and body to another man, I would have suffered severely but would have followed my heart's call. But that is not the case." "You do not desire me then, Filegethiel," his face is cold and reserved.

"Neither do you desire me, my Lord. My presence and my company, perhaps, but I am a woman who married a Dwarf and is carrying his child..." "It does not matter," his voice is even. "And that is the flaw in your reasoning, my Lord. Because it should. Because it matters to me, my passion, my fire, my anger, they matter to me, I cannot be a celestial cold being that you can share years of companionship with."

"If it is passion you require…" He steps forwards, but your chuckle stops him. "Would you have kissed me, my Lord, if you had not felt I required such seal of your affection?" He is pondering your question. "I am Elda, Filegethiel, we do not consist solely of spirit. Our bodies have desires and cravings as well." "And yet you are pursuing a woman who is physically unattainable. I am an oddity as you said, my Lord, no beauty, no allure, carrying a child of another. It is my mind you desire. But it cannot be yours. Neither does it belong to Thorin Oakenshield."

You are surprised to hear venom in your own voice when you pronounce your husband's name. You have just lamented his loss, and now you are enraged. You feel such mood changes must have to do with pregnancy and decide to give it a thought later. At the moment your mind returns to the Elvenking, his lips presses, blue eyes lowered in deep concentration.

You wait. He is immobile, and your thoughts stray to a settee in the corner of the room. You are indeed exhausted. "Will you stay in my house, Filegethiel?" His face is expressionless. "Until the birth of my son, my Lord. And possibly a bit longer, until I recover. After that I am planning on traveling to Erebor." You do not know where the confidence comes from, but you are calm.

"I am planning on introducing the King to his younger son and demand my time with my children." You decide you will agonize over the details of this plan later. A small smile curves the Elvenking's lips. "Are you not afraid to lose your third child as well?" You feel you should let him know you do not appreciate his manipulations, but then you shake off your indignation off. It does not matter.

"If the King Under the Mountain is indeed not the man I thought I married, he will deny me my children and then I think he will hardly enjoy having this one in his house," you press your palms to your stomach, "Judging by Dulindil's description of my son, the King might even doubt his parentage."

King Thranduil makes a scornful noise. "I believe King Thorin's ineptitude to understand and treasure his wife have been firmly confirmed over the last five weeks."

You agree with his evaluation. If by now your King has not returned to his senses and has not realized that it is you he suspects in an adultery, there is very little hope for him to perceive his loss.

The Elvenking stretches his hand towards you, and you put yours into his elegant palm. "Do you accept my loyal friendship, Filegethiel?" The sincere clear words in Sindarin seem to close the mental wounds you have inflicted on each other in the last hour. "I do, my friend, and savo 'lass a lalaith." _Have joy and laughter. _You bow, and he returns the gesture.

He lets go of your hand and for the last time you see a shadow run through his features. "I will require a few days of contemplation, my friend, I hope you will not feel abandoned in my absence. I am certain Dulindil and Lumorn will provide you with everything that you might require." You bow again, and he leaves the library. You sink on the settee and hide your face in your hands. Relief and pain flood you. Now you are truly alone.


	11. Chapter 11

Another moon passes, and you feel your plan starts taking shape. Your son, whom you call Aras, _stag _in Sindarin, as Dulindil insists that such will be the colour of his hair, chestnut and warm glow of pine bark and the silken fur of an elk, will have to meet his father upon his birth. You are not concerned with your pregnancy anymore, having accepted that you just have to experience the same as all those mothers in the cities of Men you tended to. You feel your strength and confidence return to you. You still partake long walks with the Elvenking but there can be days when you do not see him. You study his books and spend some time with prince Legolas. You become good friends, he is keenly interested in your past travels.

The only shadow lying on your days is the melancholy that seems to envelop Mirwood. Initially you assumed that it was the Autumn, unusually brisk and rainy this year, but then you realize that Mirkwood is reflecting its King's mood. You regret bringing it on the Silvan Elves that have become your close friends, but you do not see any way to elevate the King's gloom. Dulindil seems especially anguished by it, acutely feeling the pulse and the life of Greenwood the Great. She is restless, and her beautiful face starts carrying signs of fatigue.

At some point she disappears, having bid you a hasty goodbye, and you do not see her for two weeks. The days are full of herbs harvesting with Lumorn, and you do not notice how time flies during your friend's absence.

The day the King Under the Mountain enters the gates of The Elvenking's Halls is cold, drizzling rain and gushes of piercing wind yanking his dark blue cloak. You are sitting on a bench letting your feet rest after a few hours of harvesting birch tree juice. You are bundled in a few cloaks, your hands hidden in a woolen muff. You are not aware of his arrival, until you hear him clear his throat behind you. You sharply turn your head and see him standing on the steps leading up to the balcony you are resting on.

A violent shudder runs through your body, and you cannot move a single muscle in your body. He makes a few tentative steps towards you. His blue eyes, dark shadows under them, are roaming your face searching for any encouragement. Or wrath and rejection. You do not think he sees either. To your own surprise you are composedly studying his face, with a detached clarity you notice the signs of weariness and woe, eyes sunken, harsh lines drawn on the familiar features, but you do not find any sympathy in yourself.

"Zundushinh..." His voice is raspy, and he is finally standing in front of you. He sinks on his knees and presses his face into the cloaks covering your legs. You do not say a word and do not lift your hand to touch him. You two are sitting in silence, and you feel his body trembling. "Forgive me, Zundushinh..."

He lifts his pained face at you. You are searching for words and emotions but you do not find any. He is staring into your face, but then he cannot wait any longer, and his gaze shifts on your stomach. A large hot palm slides on it, and he undoubtedly feels the firm roundness through the layers of fabric. "How long?.." His voice is choked.

"Six moons." Your voice is expressionless. He lifts his eyes again at you. "Kurdu…" He emits a growl, or a sob, a strange pained noise, and presses himself into you. His arms fly around your upper body, and he hides his face into your sternum. He is crushing you, and you still cannot find anything to say.

"Forgive me, forgive me, I was a fool… I could have harmed you… And our son..." So he is aware. You think that though Dulindil's meddling led to good results, she should have asked you first. And then you realize that you are hungry. You chuckle. You understand that your mind is trying to distract itself from the fact that the King Under the Mountain is practically sobbing at your feet.

His eyes are full of confusion and hurt. You understand that you actually feel angrier now. Did he think this theatrical grand gesture will be met with cheering and happy tears? You gently push his arms away and get up.

"Do I understand it right, my Lord, that you came to take me back to Erebor?" He is still on his knees by the bench. "Yes..." "Very well," you do not let him finish, you are honestly not interested in what he has to say, "I will need till tomorrow morning to attend to my affairs here. I am sure King Thranduil will be gracious enough to forget your folly during your previous visit and will provide you and your companions with comfort worthy of a King." You turn on your heels and leave for your chambers.

Dulindil knocks at your door in the evening. You had your dinner in your chambers and are packing the belongings you have accumulated over the last weeks. She is bashful, shifting between her feet uncomfortably. You remember that you are a Queen and graciously give her your hands. She grabs them gratefully and sinks on the settee near you. "Oh, Filegethiel, please tell me you are not angered with me, my friend, I could not stand this any longer..." She lowers her head. "You are forgiven, Dulindil." Your voice is cold but polite. "You brought my stubborn husband to his senses, and I am returning to my Kingdom. Let us just be grateful that such are the results of your boldness."

"I hardly did anything. I believe he was ready to rush here on his own any day. The news of another son just spurred him," she peeks under her lashes. "I understand you only cared for everyone's well being, Dulindil. I will miss you, my friend," your voice softens, "and so will Aras Erebor." _The Stag of Erebor… _He eyes shift on your stomach and a sad smile adorns her lips. "He belongs with you and his father. I only hope I will get to see him once his gift and his spirit grow and mature." "You will, my friend. I promise."

You enter King Thranduil's study. He is seemingly absorbed into a book on his lap but you are certain he has not turned a page for the last hour. He sees you and gets up to greet you. You place your fingers into his cold palm. He gives you a small melancholic smile. "And here is our time arriving to its end." You smile back at him, warmly and somewhat morosely. "Indeed it is, my Lord." He picks up your second hand and look you over. "You will be missed, my friend." "And I shall you, mellon nin." He chuckles. "You tend to put words into my mouth that were not intended to be there, hiril vuin. You know me well." His voice wavers. You press his fingers. And then you step away and bow. "Guren glassui," _I thank you with all my heart, _"I will cherish my memories of your forest, my Lord." He bestows you with a low bow. "Its doors are always open for you, Filegethiel, honourable Lachwen, the Flamemaiden of Erebor."

You slip in and out of restless sleep that night, your thoughts again and again leaping to your children whom you will see soon. You yearn for their company and their affection. In the early hours of the morning for the first time your mind goes to your husband. What has he been saying to those who asked about your absence? What do your children know? What were your people told?

The morning is even gloomier that the day before. You descend the stairs and see the King and several Dwarven warriors waiting for you. You see Balin, and you halt to search his face. He is smiling widely, and you hurry to him, stretching your hands to him. "My Queen," his voice is warm, and you sigh in relief. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you, Master Balin." He bows. "We have missed you during your long but politically important official visit to the Woodland Realm." He looks at you from under his brows. "And as productive and beneficial for our Kingdoms as this visit was, I am elated to return home." You press his hands in yours, and you nod to each other.

"My brother is awaiting us outside the forest with ponies. I regret you will have to walk so far in your delicate condition." His eyes are asking silently. You smile. "We both know it is just a figure of speech, my Lord. I am as healthy and energetic as the two times before. The young prince does not cause his amad any trouble." The wrinkles from a cordial smile run around the corners of his eyes. "That is glorious news indeed."

Through your conversation the King is standing few steps away, silent and frowned. A group of Silvan Elves come to say their goodbyes. You bid your farewells to your friends, embrace children, take small gifts and tokens of affection. A small girl is sniffing on her mother's arms, and you run your fingers through her hair. Lumorn brings a chest full of vials as a goodbye gift. He bows graciously to you, "It has been an honour, lady Filegethiel." "Thank you, my friend. The honour was all mine."

The Elvenking does not come, but you are certain it is for the best. Neither does Dulindil. A group of guards from the Silvan Elves will accompany your to the edge of the forest for protection, and then joined by Dwalin you will head for Erebor. It is time to go home.

**A/N: And the end :) Hahaha, of course not! The King Under the Mountain might think he dodged a bullet here and didn't f*** up his marriage but he is SO wrong! She might be going home now, but does he even have a wife now?**


	12. Chapter 12

On your way to Erebor you manage to avoid being alone with the King, mostly conversing with Balin and later Dwalin. As different as the real reason of your stay in Mirkwood from the official one is, you still managed to have a few matters settled with the Elvenking. You have discussed the borders and the dark shadow seemingly growing in Dol-Guldur. Some of the trade questions were also addressed, and you are bringing some treaties back. You feel relieved.

The two Dwarves are the oldest of your allies and friends in Erebor, and you often catch their concerned looks and the silent conversations they lead between themselves. Your lack of desire to seek the King's company does not escape them. You ask of your children, and you are told that they are healthy, undisturbed, and in Balin's words nothing important has happened in their life. You nod and smile to him gratefully.

When you arrive through the Erebor Gates, you jump off the pony first, without waiting for any assistance and run towards the opening doors. The two warm bodies of your children slam into you, and you feel sobs erupting out of you for the first time since the horrible night when you were abandoned in the house of the Elvenking. Thror and Unna talk at the same time, excited voices ringing, sharing the news of new toys and the fireworks that they saw, the new wooden sword for Unna, and the progress of Thror's training. You are nodding, wiping your tears and laughing. "We missed you, amad," Unna is nuzzling your neck, "Do not leave us for so long again!" You press her into your body and shake your head. "Never again, haban, never again."

You spend the evening in their chambers, playing on the floor and sharing your dinner with them. Unna is curious about your pregnant stomach and rubs it with her hot little palms. Thror stands a few steps away, feigning disinterest, but you can see him peering askew as well. "Come, Thror, you can touch it too. It is your brother inside," he comes closer and carefully puts his hand on it.

And then you feel the first kick. Thror jerks his hand back and blanches. You laugh loudly, you forgot the delightful feeling of a baby's first movements. "What was that?" Thror's blue eyes are wide open. "It is a kick, Thror, your brother just kicked you from inside." Unna falls on the floor roaring with laughter, and after some hesitation Thror joins your frolics.

"I want to feel it too," Unna presses her cheek to the stomach, but the younger prince is quiet. She gently taps her finger on the firm sphere, and you chuckle. "You cannot make him talk to you, Unna, you have to be patient." She frowns and starts rubbing your stomach in impatient circles.

"What are you naming him, amad?" Thror has recovered from his laughing fit and is decorously sitting in front of you. He is eleven and is full of importance. He constantly mimics his father's gestures, and at the moment his hands are folded on his chest in a miniscule replica of the King's posture. "I do not know yet, Thror. Your father and I will have to decide," if you ever talk again, which if it depended on you would happen after the delivery. Or not even after that.

After putting your older children to bed and then spending another hour in their chamber trying to convince yourself to leave, you finally close the door behind you and lean your back at the cold wall of a passage. You need to face the King, and you feel you have no strength left.

You also feel crying rising, the emotional strain of the day taking its effect, and you think you need to find a quiet place to shed your tears first. You hurry to a small kitchen in the Royal Halls, it is rarely used, mostly by you in the early months of your children's lives, when you needed some nutrition in the middle of the night. You sit at the small table and drop your head on your folded arms.

You cry for an hour, all your unshed tears and uncertainty of the last few months pouring out of you, in muffled sobs, your body convulsing, and then you slowly calm down. You wash your face with cold water and head to your sleeping chambers. You are calm, almost numb, and you find that you could not wish for a better state of mind to have the conversation you are planning on.

The King is sitting in his armchair in the dark corner of the bedroom, his elbow on the armrest, his hand fisted in front of his mouth. The eyes are agitated, and you once again notice how much toll these weeks have levied on him. He is thinned out, exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. You do not feel any compassion.

You enter the room and walk to the bed. You sit on the edge facing him. Something in your face keeps him from leaping towards you, which you know his desire is. "My King, I would like to request separate sleeping arrangements," your tone is calm, almost lifeless, and you wait for some emotion to stir in you. None comes.

He drops his hand, and you see his mouth contort in a pained grimace. "You came back..." "To Erebor, to my children, to my people." He takes a deep breath in, almost a hiss, through clenched teeth. "But you did not come back for your husband." "No, I did not." "You cannot expect me to forget you are my wife and just be grateful that my Kingdom got its Queen back," he is getting angrier. You cannot help but take a small revenge. "As far as I remember you claimed you had no wife, my Lord."

You see a painful shudder quake his body. "And I will be honest with you, my Lord, my children were my main reason to return, not the Kingdom. I do not doubt your skill of a leader, I am certain you managed and would continue beautifully without me." You get up, "I do not wish for rumours to start. The servants and our children cannot know anything. I think it is best if I were to sleep in my dressing room. There is a comfortable trundle bed there, I will not be walked on since the room is the furthest." You can see him clenching a fist. You know he is holding on to the last shreds of his self control. His anger does not frighten you. All you want is to lie down, you are exhausted.

"I will not make my pregnant wife sleep in a closet..." "I do not wish to sleep in our former bed," you tone is still even, "Neither do I wish to share rooms with you." This is the first time you are directing your words at him, and he jerks. You feel surprisingly liberated by this directness.

"For how long?" His voice is gruff, desperate, aching. You lift your brows, what kind of foolish question is that? "Until the babe is born. After that I think we can use caring for him as an excuse and I can move into separate chambers adjoint to the nursery."

He jumps on his feet. "That is not what I am asking!" His voice is sharp and loud, and you flinch. You are so tired. "For how long will you be punishing me?" You look at him. Men can be ludicrously dim sometimes. He lowers his head. "I deserve it, every second of it… I lashed out, I was not thinking… I could have hurt you, both of you..." He presses his palm to his eyes. His voice is choked. "I knew that it could not be true… But what I saw…"

"I do not wish to discuss this right now, my Lord. I am exhausted. All I want is a bath and a full night of sleep. I do not need draining examination of your follies at the moment. We can discuss everything first thing in the morning."

He steps towards you, but your cold narrowed eyes stop him. "Just tell me for how long you will be punishing me!.." He is screaming and almost begging. "I am not punishing you, my Lord. I just do not wish to pretend to be your wife since I do not feel like one anymore." He takes a step back, his face terrified. "I am not punishing, and I am not trying to manipulate anything out of you, I just do not want you anymore. You do not have my trust anymore. And without it I am not your wife."


	13. Chapter 13

"Adad?" Thror's voice returns the King to reality. His son has been addressing him for a few seconds already. The King lifts his eyes from his untouched plate and looks at Thror. All three of you are sharing breakfast in the dining hall adjoint to your sleeping chambers. Or should you say, your former sleeping chambers? You spent the night in the dressing room on a trundle bed, and surprisingly your dreams were light and peaceful. You fell asleep immediately. You remember that in the Elvenking's Halls it took you three weeks to get used to not having the heavy, hot body of your husband near you under the covers. You were constantly cold until the babe inside you grew big enough to provide you with warmth. As a midwife you know that even children of Men seem to have little stoves inside them. What is there to say of Dwarven younglings!

"Yes, what is it?" "Now that amad is home, could we go to Dale? The market is still open, and the Winter is coming. Soon there will be nothing interesting to buy. And now they have those honeyed nuts..." The children start talking at the same time, interrupting each other, and the King winces. Their cheerful chatting seems be causing him acute mental pain. You take another piece of your favourite seedcake from the plate and observe him from the corner of your eyes. He is pale, obviously having not slept the night, his jaws clenched. He lifts his pained eyes at you. You do not think there is any expression in yours.

"Perhaps, we can go next week," you are offering a solution, "I am still rather tired after the journey and need a few more days." Unna pouts, but Thror nods stately. "Of course, amad, you need rest, you and our brother." He nudges Unna, and she sighs. "Yes, amad, let us go next week." Her tone is obviously intended to show how displeased she is. Children finish their breakfast and excuse themselves from the table.

On the way out of the hall Thror suddenly turns around and comes to you. He throws his arms around your neck, he has not allowed himself such displays of "mushy" affection unbecoming of a Dwarven warrior and the heir to the throne of Durin for a few years now, and whispers in your ear, "I am glad you are home, amad." You smile and return the embrace. Unna joins in, and they are pulling at your neck. You are laughing, "Careful, you will topple me over. I am getting rounder every day..." They both are giggling, and then Unna presses her ear to your stomach again. "Will he talk to me today maybe? It is not fair that Thror got a kick, and I did not..."

She is whining, and you suddenly catch the King's eyes. His jaws are clenched, and his face is wan, eyes agonizing. You pat Unna's back. "Go, children, it is time for your language classes." You were pleased to find out that your children's education has not been hindered by your absence. "Good bye, little brother, we will talk later," Unna pats your stomach, and they leave.

The King is sitting at the table, his palms pressed into the wood of its top. You do not move either, fiddling with a raspberry stem in your fingers. "When has he moved for the first time?" The King's voice is grim. "Last night, when Thror touched the stomach." He lifts his eyes at you. "And since then?" You slowly shake your head. One large hand on the table twitches, and then he clenches it in a fist.

"If you wish to talk, my Lord, right now might be an opportune moment." You calmly pick up your cup and sip the tea. There is nothing he can say that can change your opinion, but you think it will make your coexistence more peaceful in the future if he knew that you heard his point of view and he tried his best to persuade you. Because you know that he will try. Also, you know that he will not succeed.

He gets up and starts pacing the hall. You know it helps him think, and you wait. He will form a strategy in his mind, and then he will stop in front of you, trying to intimidate you, towering over you, and then he will say…

"That will not do," you lift your eyes, and he is predictably standing over you, looking down his long nose. His brows are drawn, but for the first time since he approached you at the balcony in Mirkwood there is a spark gleaming in his eyes. For many years you have played chess with him, you are familiar with the light in his eyes brought up by what he thinks is a successful plan of an attack.

"You cannot stay in my house, fulfill your duties as a mother and a Queen, but not be my wife. The children will notice, that will break their hearts," it is a low blow but he forgets whom he is talking to. You have been with him for more than fifteen years, you are immune to his manipulations. He is an open book. You let him talk. "The youngest one, will you deprive him of love from both parents?" "Are you not to love him if I am not to return your affections, my Lord?" He recoils. "Of course not, but you told me many times yourself, infants are very sensitive to the ambience in the house. They cry and fuss when their parents are frustrated." He thinks he is being clever, appealing to your maternal instincts. "Perhaps you should have thought of it, my Lord, when you were depriving your older children of their mother completely."

His confidence wavers, and he lowers his head. "I am guilty of that. And of assuming..." He cannot seem to continue. "That I have entered an illicit affair with none other but King Thranduil, the Lord of Woodland Realm, and an Elf for that matter," your tone is so acidic that you think venom can be collected in a cup from your front teeth. "Does it not sound ridiculous when you try pronouncing it out loud, my Lord?"

"He has desired you for years!" He finally loses control and yells into your face. And then steps back, "Forgive me, I should have not… Your condition..." His eyes fall on your stomach, and you suddenly see red. "Whatever happened between you and I has nothing to do with King Thranduil," you are snarling through your teeth, "His feelings whatever they are do not matter! You assumed that I... I, your wife and the mother of your children," you are rising from your chair, and he steps back, "That I would besmirch myself with such sickening liaison!"

"I should have know that you would not..." "You knew that I would not!" You are shouting in his face, and he flinches as if from a slap. "You know me, Thorin, son of Thrain, I have been by your side for fifteen years, and not once had you had a reason to doubt my honour!"

You take another step ahead and actually push his shoulder. You are so livid that you are shaking. "But as soon as you saw something that could indicate any impurity on my part, you immediately accepted my fault. What is there to tell me it will not happen again next moon?"

He is shaking his head, "I will never..." "No, you do not get to make any promises, my King," you turn away from him and clench your fists, "I do not require them. I am staying in this house for the sake of my children," you wrap your arms around your stomach, "And I will maintain decorum and I will fulfill my duties as your Queen. But I am not your wife." You slowly turn and look at his devastated face. "And if ever again you decide to banish me from Erebor, I will take my children with me, and Mahal help me, you will not be able to stop me."

He is shaking. "My children are my leverage, my Lord. I do not trust you enough to ever again put myself at your mercy. Behave respectfully, and do not talk to me beyond necessary, or you will not see them ever again. Including Aras." His eyes fall on your stomach. "You left us in Mirkwood, abandoned us. And you did not return for us."

He opens his mouth probably to object, but you do not let him speak. "How long did it take you to assume for the first time that you might have misunderstood what transpired between me and the Elvenking? Once the sleeping draught seized its effect, an hour? Two? And how much time did it take for you to become almost certain that your wife would never fall that low?" You are looking into his eyes, but he is silent. He finally understands that there is nothing for him to say. "And then you stayed in Erebor, and glowered, and brooded, and your temper would flare, and you were cruel to the servants and harsh with your warriors. And you did not sleep and could hardly eat. But you were too proud to come back and ask for explanation and forgiveness. And then Dulindil came and told you that you were to become a father again. And you rushed there. And you agonized that I would think your were there only for our child, but you hoped you could convince me that you loved me and needed me. And everything would be forgotten and forgiven, and would go back to how it was before."

You finally take a breath, and then you smirk. His whole body jerks. You assume it is not a pleasant smile on your face. "I apologise, my Lord, I did all the talking but you should agree it is for the best. I saved you so much time and effort. And to save you even more time I will tell you right now and right here, I do not trust you anymore not to make the same mistake again. And I will treat you accordingly."

You turn around and leave the hall. You have matters to attend. You go to your study and start dusting and organize your papers and draughts. You notice that your hands do not shake.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Oh, wow, thank you all for the reviews! I have to admit, the emotional outburst I received was exactly what I was aiming for! :P And brace yourselves, my lovelies! The ride will get bumpier! :D**

**A/N#2: I sort of linked this chapter with "Dwalin" piece in "Thorin's Company" simply for elegance purposes :) I'm funny that way :)**

You spend the morning in your study, cleaning up and receiving visitors, members of the court and townsfolk coming to congratulate you with your return and your parturiency, bringing tokens and gifts, baskets and sachets quickly covering the tables and shelves. A few of your patients come for a chat, even without your magic you can provide advice and guidance. Most of them are now tended to in the infirmary you set up on the ground level of the Erebor Halls ten years ago, but there are a few women you observe yourself.

A few of your friends stop by. Fili, all golden and glowing, as you jokingly call him, your third favourite Dwarf, Master Balin obviously being the second after the King, saunters in your study. He is carrying a tiny wooden sword as a gift for the new prince, and you cannot help but laugh. He is smiling and it feels as if the room is flooded by midsummer sunlight. "I have a good feeling about this one, my Queen," he is stroking his hay coloured moustache, "This one will be a fine swordsman." You chuckle, "Are you displeased with Thror's progress, dear nephew?" "Oh no, of course not! But he definitely prefers the ax. Such a swing though, Master Dwalin was most impressed."

Your friend Myrna, the Erebor librarian, rushes in and hurriedly congratulating you on the new heir, she flops on a chair and peers into your eyes. "I want to hear all about King Thranduil's library." You laugh. Even as a married woman and the mother of two, she is all about books. You promise to tell her all but tomorrow, you are already overwhelmed by the attention. She sighs but concedes. She tells you the latest news, her telling is always dry and factorial, she has no patience for gossip. She is also rather lacking in perceptiveness when it comes to people's feelings. Which at this moment is a blessing for you. Any other of your friends would start questioning your never previously tarnished marital bliss. Myrna is enthusiastically discussing the new addition to the forges.

When a servant brings you lunch, you are dizzy from tiredness and hunger. Your hands are shaking, and when you hear another knock at the door you mentally groan. You remind yourself that you are a Queen and invite your visitor to open the door. It is Dwalin, and you sigh in relief. "Master Dwarf, it is pleasure to see you. Would you like to join me for meal? There is enough food for two in here." He cocks a brow. You grin. "For three. Please, join me."

You are sharing the meal, mostly in comfortable silence, fleetingly discussing Thror's training. When the food is eaten, the warrior leans back on his chair. You can see there is a subject he is preparing to approach, and you let him choose his pace. "My Queen, since what happened in Framsburg," you are stirring your tea, and your hand halts, "the King decided we need to observe your safety better. He… offered," he seems to stumble over this word. You lift your brows in mockery. Thorin Oakenshield rarely offers. Demanding is more in his nature, "That you take swording lessons with me." The Dwarf lifts his hands defensively. "Do not get me wrong, my lady, no one doubts your proficiency with a sword. I saw you in a battle, Barazninh, you do not need much teaching." He smirks, and you return the smile. "May be just a bit of refreshing of skills, not to get too rusty." You chuckle. "Thank you, Master Dwalin, I'll be honoured. We can start in a few days when I am fully rested after the travel."

He nods and seems to get absorbed in his thoughts. "We went there, you know?" You lift your eyes at him. "After Thorin came back from Mirkwood, we went to Framsburg. King Bard sent his guards as well. Wiped them all out." He makes a decisive motion in the air, and you feel nauseated. You get up and turn your back to the table. You do not want to think of that day. "Forgive me, Barazninh, I should not have..." "It is quite alright. I am glad the menace is not there any more. Traveling along the river will be much safer now." Your voice is hollow. "The Elf said you were uninjured," the question is there and you turn to face him. You try to smile but your lips tremble. "I was not. Just a few bruises, I was practically untouched. And I saw a healer and a midwife in the Elvenking's Halls afterwards." His face is relieved, and then he makes a scoffing sound. "What do those pointy-eared buffoons know! I would not trust their healer with a splinter!" "Do you trust this one?" You tap a finger to your temple. He smirks, "This one I trust completely."

The second half of the day is even more frantic, and you feel you are going to fall any moment. Still, before dinner you want to attend Thror's sparring. You walk to the training yard and heavily sit on a bench. Several warriors are warming up, Thror is talking to Fili, nodding solemnly, and once again you wonder where is your blood in this child? He is an astonishingly accurate small replica of the King Under the Mountain, the same wide shoulders, proud set of his head, massive strong arms, the same tilted nod, brows drawn together.

You shiver, the evenings are becoming brisky. A heavy velvet cloak lies on your shoulders, and you lift your face. The King is standing above you, his lips pressed in a bitter line, eyes cautious. "Thank you, my Lord." He nods and heads for the warriors. You watch his shoulders and the broad back, tense and burdened.

The smell of his skin and the soap he customarily uses fills your nose. Your first desire is to push the heavy garment off your shoulders, but you tell yourself to be reasonable. It is just a cloak. You are watching the Dwarves dragging a swording dummy into the middle of the yard, and Fili is showing Thror an apparently new move. The King is conversing with Dwalin, gesturing at the prince. Thror picks up a wooden sword and lunges ahead. You can see that his movements are certain and forceful. The older Dwarves murmur in approval.

You pull the cloak closer, small shivers still running through your body, and bury your cold nose in the fur on the collar. The smell is stronger there, and you realize that you do not wish to shake it off anymore. In fact you seem to be nuzzling it. You cannot help it, you fill your lungs with the familiar fragrance, and then you fill a forceful kick of your unborn son into your side.

You gasp and press your palm into the spot. Another kick follows. You rub your side and make shushing sounds. The foot, at least you suppose it is a foot, meets your hand again. You jump up. "Are you alright, my Queen?" The King's velvet voice is concerned, and you gulp. His eyes are warm and sad, head tilted on the side.

You get up and hand him the cloak. "I am, but I am exhausted. I am going to rest now. Tell the children I will not join them for dinner, my Lord. I shall see them to sleep though." You receive a small nod from him and hurriedly go back to your chambers. You shed your clothes and climb under the blankets on your narrow bed. You close your eyes, and the darkness envelops you quickly. You just need a couple hours.

You feel a warm hand caressing your cheek, and you smile. The feeling is endlessly familiar, and you rub your cheek to the calloused palm. And then you turn your head and press your lips to it. The hand is jerked away from you, and your eyes fly open. You remember yourself, and your cheeks start burning with embarrassment. You were still in your dream, everything was still alright, vague memories mixed with happy fantasies still floating in your mind.

You stare into the darkness and see the King scooting in front of your low bed. Anger rises, you never even thought of locking the door, assuming he would have the decency not to intrude. "Zundushinh," his whisper is low and gruff. You open your mouth to berate him in indignation, but he presses his hand over your mouth. Your eyes widen, and your press your hands into his chest.

"Unna is in our bed. I think she got scared and came," you stop pushing him away. "She is asleep now. She woke me up..." You nod, and he lets you go.

You slide from under the blanket and go to the bed chambers. The princess is indeed sprawled on the oaktree bed, her feet are on the pillow. That explains what woke the King up. Not many things can, but you assume a tiny heel buried into one's eyeball can do that to the most stubborn sleeper.

"We need to bring her back to her room, my Lord," he nods and picks her up. She starts whining seemingly still asleep, "Amad..." You stroke the silky dark curls, so similar to her father's. "I'm here, my haban, I am here."

After she is tucked in, you stay on the side of her bed, running your hand through her hair. "You did not come to dinner… We thought you left again…" Her tiny hand grasps your fingers with surprising strength. "I just was very tired, haban. I am not leaving anywhere ever again." She sniffs and finally falls asleep.

"You should go to bed, my Lord," the King is leaning on the door frame, a strange expression on his face, "I will stay here a bit." He hesitates and then nods. Then he looks at your bare feet. He picks up a quilt and wraps you in it. You tuck your feet under yourself, and he pushes a corner of the quilt under you. Then he sharply turns around and leaves.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: First of all, thank you for the reviews! They keep me going and, cross my heart, they immensely speed up updates *wink* **

**They also make me think and question my writer's choices, which is wonderful! Love you all, me dearies! :)**

**A/N#2: Thank you, ****dearreader,**** for your questions as well as your review! First of all, regarding the Elvenking: I'll remind you, that according to him, he did not expect Thorin to reach the Elvenking's Halls until morning and for him to come for Wren so soon in general. Thus, his fallout in the middle of the night and overwhelming desire to see her one last time before her husband takes her away. That is if you believe what he says. Wren does. Btw, I LOVED your comment on "****elvin treachery"! Something tells me, Thrandy didn't convince you :)**

**Secondly, regarding our dear King Grumpy: as Wren said herself, she is not angry at him for lashing out and trying to chop her like a log (obviously, calm restraint is not his forte:) but for not coming back for her when he cooled down. He obviously did at some point, he had to remember it is his wife and mother of his two children, his Wren, his Khazad Bahinh he is accusing of an affair. She cannot forgive him for leaving her alone and depriving her of her children, her family, her friends, her home. Short temper is in his character, but she also thought that loving her and trusting her unconditionally was sort of there too :(**

The next few days proceed in the same way. All three of you share your meals, though the King is mostly absent during breakfast, at early hours of the morning he is already working in his study, and then each one of you goes around their day. You have a lot of catching up to do, many matters left unattended in your absence. Erebor is preparing for the long Winter, the affairs of provision and wood storage have traditionally fallen on your shoulders. You also oversee the construction of the new wing in the infirmary that was halted without you. In the evening you put your children to sleep and go to the dressing room. If the King happens to be in your chambers, he bestows you a silent nod. In most cases he is not. You hardly notice his movements during the day, you are too preoccupied. Perhaps, you just try not to think about what is coming. You know him well and predict that his seeming acceptance of the current state of your relationships is the calm before the storm. He is preparing his next move.

A week after your arrival all three of you, accompanied by guards and Master Dwalin, go to Dale for the trip to the market you have promised to your children. That day you wake up in a dark mood, having slept very little, strange dreams distressing you. Nonetheless, you put on your most lavish travel clothes, clasp Nyrnala on your neck, though these days it is usually kept in a chest in your dressing room, and mount your pony. Children are overjoyed, already talking too loudly, even without additional titillation from all the sweetness that will get into their blood at the market. For the first time since your arrival the King seems to be in a good mood as well. He is laughing at Unna's musings on what toys they can purchase there. They are exchanging most extravagant guesses, the point of the game seems to be to come up with the most absurd. He also promises to buy her any fabric she might want for her new dress, and you wince at his overindulging her. Thror is decorously conversing with Dwalin.

By the time you reach Dale you understand that this trip was an unfortunate idea. You are nauseated and jittery. The market is crowded, the merchants are loud and obtrusive, and you feel increasingly irritated. Children try to run away, attracted by yet another bright stand, and you are raising your voice. Unna starts pouting, and then suddenly everything swims in front of your eyes. A pair of strong arms catches you, and the King is murmuring into your ear, "It is alright, I got you." You grab his sleeve and press your face into his neck. You immediately feel better, the spicy fresh smell of his skin hitting your nose. You take greedy breaths, exhaling through your clenched teeth. It always seemed to have helped you through the faint spells the past two times.

"Dwalin, keep an eye on the children," the King's voice is stern, "Thror, your mother is not feeling well, you are responsible for your sister now. Hold her hand and do not let her go under any circumstances." You hear Thror's earnest agreement. "Tell them not to worry…" You voice is hardly audible, but he turns to the children again. "Nothing is wrong," he softens his tone, "it happens when women are with child. The same happened when you two were expected. She just needs to lie down," he lets you go with one hand and throws a money pouch to Dwalin. "Buy them anything they want." He orders half of the guard to stay with them and starts walking you through the streets.

You stumble after a few steps, and he picks you up in his arms. You are trying to shake off the daze. "Have you eaten today, zundush?" You do not remember. "You always forget that you need to eat more often with my child under your heart," he sounds equally amused and peevish. You do not care, his heat and his hard body under your hands are all that matters for you now.

He enters what you assume is an inn, your guard stomping after you. You do not notice how he goes up the stairs, everything is increasingly blurry, and you feel nausea rising again. "Just a bit more, zundush..." He lowers you on fresh clean sheets, and you close your eyes. "Do not sleep," he is sitting on the edge of the bed, "If you fall asleep with an empty stomach, you will feel worse when you wake up. We have been there before, remember? Common, let me help you," his palms slide under your shoulder blades, and he gently makes you sit up. He presses you into him, and you bury your nose into his neck again.

A help brings food, and you wrinkle your nose. You remember how hard it will be to force yourself to eat. You just need to get through the first few pieces, but it is a torture. He breaks a piece of bread and hands it to you. You sigh and start chewing. Then he offers you a piece of cheese, and you recoil and press a palm to your mouth. "Oh no..." You have to take a few big gulps of air to halt rising vomiting. "Hm," the King pops the cheese into his mouth, "So this one did not temporarily turn you into a cheese lover?" You shake your head.

You personally have no opinion on cheese, it is as any other food for you, but when previously pregnant with his children you would adopt his fanatical fondness for it. You probably ate as much of it as he does himself. Apparently, the passion for it resides in his blood, together with the stubbornness, morning grouchiness and complete inability to accept other people's judgement. Both Thror and Unna can live on cheese. Your third child seems to be an exception in yet another aspect.

He hands you a cup of tea, and you can smell the milk and the honey that you always take in it. You take a small sip and wait. You are hoping the food stays inside. "You are rather green, zundush. Were those apples that helped last time?" Your eyes are closed, you are taking cautious breaths. You give him a small nod and hear him cut an apple. He is also peeling it, remembering your aversion to the skin during pregnancies. "Here," you peek and take a slice.

You two are sitting in silence, you are chewing your food, he is seemingly lost in his thoughts. "Better?" His voice is soft and caring, and you hum. You turn and see him staring at you. You give him a small smile. "Can I?.." He stretches his hand towards your stomach, but does not reach all the way. You swallow and hesitate. Something stops you from sharing Aras with him. Strange protectiveness rises in you, and you frown. Whatever happened between you two, you cannot deny his worth as a father, and yet, here you are, unwilling to let him in the small world that you and Aras share.

You see his hand twitch, and his face hardens. You scold yourself, you are being preposterous. "Of course, my Lord." His blue eyes fly up to meet yours, and then he looks at the firm roundness. The hot palm lies on it. It feels like it is burning your skin even through the layers of velvet and silk you are bundled up in. And then two things happen at once.

Your unborn son gives a rather sensitive kick right into his adad's palm, and you gasp. And at the same moment a golden sparkle runs from inside your stomach into the King's fingers, up his arm, through his shoulder and after a bouncy skip, with a merry pop it flicks the tip of King's nose.

The King's eyes grew wide, and then he guffaws. You are staring at him. "Well, hello to you too, little one," he splays his palm on your stomach and gently strokes. His tone is gentle, he is almost cooing. "Is he always like that?" The King, his head tilted, seems to be listening to something you cannot hear. "That is the first time this happened." He hikes up his brows. "Well, I guess he thinks I am quite special." Another kick seems to be a direct confirmation of this statement. The King smirks.

And then he looks into your eyes and opens his mouth to speak. You flinch away from him. "No, no, do not say anything," you move away from him, "It does not… does not change anything… Of course, he loves you, he is your son, but it does not..." Your lips start trembling, and you cannot hold back a sob. His face is suddenly lost and pained. "Zundush..." "No, no..." You do not even know what you are saying no to, you just feel the need to leave, just to get out. You scamper from the bed, and your head swims. He stretches his hand to you, but you grab the bedpost and steady yourself. "That does not change anything..." You straighten up. "I want to return to my children now, my Lord," your voice is trembling but you are adamant.

He is silent, his eyes roaming your face, but whatever he sees there seems to discourage him from pressing the matter. He nods and gets up. He loops his arm and offers it to you, "Shall we, my lady?" You would prefer to avoid touching him, but you are still dizzy. You loop your arm through his, and you two leave the room.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: This one is short and not event-driven. Wren needs a moment to think. The bumpy emotional ride will continue in the next one. Reviews are appreciated as never before, my lovelies :)**

You are sitting on the floor of the dressing room and stare at the glossy wooden doors of your fitted wardrobes. You put your children to sleep and after a long bath you are wrapped in a warm robe. You are sitting on a pillow, your legs crossed, your back leaning on the wall. You know that is the most comfortable position for you to think in. And you realize you do need to do a lot of thinking.

For the last ten days your life seems to have been in a state of torpor, each day seemingly the same as the previous. You run your errands, share your meals with your family, and wait. A feeling of an impending storm is nagging at the back of your mind. Since the day at the market the King does not meet your eyes, does not try to touch your stomach, or discuss your pregnancy, he hardly speaks to you, a few practical neutral phrases a day, and you feel relieved. This is what you wanted, you wanted distance, you need air to breathe. The less of him you see, the better you feel.

Every time you feel his presence near you, you remember his livid face, Orcrist clenched in his hand, and his words, _I do not have a wife! And my children do not have a mother! _The cold despair clenches around your heart, you once again feel his cruelty, his readiness to take away everything that is dear to you, throw you aside, forget about you, and never come back for you. You gasp for air and remind yourself that you are back on Erebor, that your children are with you, and then your hands fly to wrap around your middle. You feel a dire need to protect Aras from him, from the chance that one day your son will be torn away from you like Thror and Unna were.

The King is always quiet, reserved, respectful, not the Thorin you know, and it frightens you. Sometimes you catch his eyes when he thinks you cannot see him, and the blue irises are scorching, fire and fervency burning in them, and you shrink in foreboding. You want to run, take your children and run.

You press your hands to your face. You try to remind yourself that it is your husband, the man you loved and married, the man you trusted and whom you cherished beyond anything else in this world. The King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the Dwarf you fell in love with after seeing him once, the man you loved through a war, and through the times of plenty, the man who let you take his hand and lead him to your room in the inn in Dale.

But you cannot seem to remember him. All you can think of is the cold and the despair of being left behind in the Elvenking's Halls, for days and days, at the mercy of the alien and elusive King of Silvan Elves, without a hope to ever see your children again, without a chance to explain yourself.

You close your eyes and drop your head back. Sometimes you seem to see a glimpse of the man you loved in him. And you obviously know he is still the same man, it is you who has changed. But you cannot seem to shake off this terrifying feeling. You feel like one sometimes feels in a dream when looking at a familiar and dear face one is certain that it is not their beloved but someone who just looks like them. A decoy, a changeling, a dangerous and terrifying ghostly double of the one you love...

Sometimes these days your body seemingly without your will reacts to him in a familiar way. You are not talking of carnal hunger, none of it seems to exist in your body anymore, but you sometimes see your fingers twitch as if your hand wants to reach for his on the table top, or you catch the smell of his soap in the bath chambers after he leaves for his day, and you want to press yourself into him and get enveloped in his warmth.

But then he accidentally touches your elbow at the table, and you recoil, an unpleasant shiver runs through you, and it takes a distinct effort not to push him away from you in revolt. For fifteen years this man was the closest to you, your husband, your friend, your ally. You carried his children, you are carrying one now, his blood mixed with yours runs through your veins, his smell forever soaked into your skin. Why are you rejecting him so violently?

You think it would have been easier if you could just choose to punish him, make him grovel, demand gifts and gestures. You are certain he would deliver. Though not a master of seduction, he knows you well to present you with gifts you would enjoy, and he surely could summon enough eloquence for convincing apologies. You are even certain they would be completely sincere. You just need to give him a hint, and he will be at your feet. Although he is keeping a respectful distance as you requested, you know that his eyes are constantly on you, and he is waiting for the smallest of encouragement to leap into action.

You also know that you do not want it. You want him to stay away, to stop disturbing your peace, his looks heated, his touches tender. You know he does not sleep, every morning dark shadows lie under his eyes, he hardly eats. You should feel horrible, you are putting your husband through an acute mental torture, but you do not. You just want to be left in peace.

You are staring at your reflection in the polished wood of the door. Could you be suffering from melancholia? You know women can experience it after delivering their child. Perhaps you have it now, after the turmoil you have gone through, after the trauma of the kidnapping and the weeks you spent in Mirkwood, isolated and anguished over your future and that of your unborn child.

You realize you need to talk to someone, seek advice, but who can you go to? Not a healer, you cannot share familial discord in the royal family of Erebor. None of your female friends here, they are your and Thorin's subjects. Thea is travelling with merchants to Bree these days. You certainly have noone to talk to.

And then you feel tears running down your face. And the understanding dawns. That is the reason of your anguish, that is where your melancholia comes from, this is your heartbreak. You do not have anyone. And neither did you before, except for the King. Before that horrible night in Mirkwood you were certain that no matter what there was one person in this world you could turn to. He was your best friend, he was the one you trusted the most. Through the good and the bad you trusted he would be on your side.

And now you are utterly and truly alone. Because you lost him, and he lost you. Because there is nothing left in your heart, as it is shattered in hundreds of pieces, and you will never feel safe in this world, in this house, as you have no trust in the man who was your world and your heart. You drop your head in your hands and start crying.


	17. Chapter 17

Two more weeks pass, and the day of the King's attack that you dreaded so much comes. You enter your former sleeping chambers and notice a trail of petals on the floor. You bend down and pick one up. It is a pink blossom of hydrangea. It only blooms in Summer. You see a merry blossom of clematis vitalba and a red rose petal. The trail is thick, all possible colours hiding in it, you can distinguish the flowers of as many as twenty different plants in it. You follow the trail through the previously closed passage leading from your chambers up a narrow spiral staircase and enter a large room. You look up and see a glass ceiling. In the room lit by numerous lanterns you find large stoves, heating up the air, a large cauldron of water with a tap, and above all, seemingly endless shelves with flower pots. Green luscious leaves of innumerable plants are a stark contrast to the bleak snowy landscape behind the glass doors, leading to a large balcony facing the Erebor Valley. Judging by the shelves installed outside, in summertime the balcony is also to be turned into a garden, where plants can enjoy sunlight and warm fresh air.

You are standing in the middle of your new garden, stunned, tears running down your face. You touch the leaf closest to you. It is thyme, a small fragrant shrub in a merry glazed pot, and you feel the spicy smell emanating from its leaves. Although he makes no sound, you feel the King's presence behind. You are trembling but you cannot make yourself turn to face him.

"I had the construction started five months ago," his voice is quiet, his tone even, "I have nothing to be proud about again though. While you were in Mirkwood, I had the plants sent back. Whatever was left after I raged for hours and smashed most of the pots." He gives you a mirthless chuckle. You turn around and look at him. He looks exhausted. "I am not trying to buy your forgiveness, my Queen, I know it is not for sale and not mine to ask for. I just hope you will accept my gift as a token of my…" He stumbles over his words and suddenly looks dumbfounded. You cannot help but find his expression rather amusing.

"Mahal help me, it sounded so nice in my head just an hour ago… So smooth..." You are pressing your lips together, but the treacherous giggle escapes. He rolls his eyes up, which only makes you laugh more. Such an unbecoming gesture to the obstinate King Under the Mountain! He clenches and unclenches his fists. "Where was I?"

You smile through tears still pooling in your eyes. "You are not buying my forgiveness, my King, and this gift is a token of something mysterious that you cannot remember." He realizes you are jesting at him and looks at you under frowned brows. "As you can assume, my lady, I had a beautiful speech prepared, but I seem to have lost my train of thought." You chuckle again, "Give me the gist then." He lifts a brow and gives you a disbelieving look.

"The gist?" He takes a deep breath in. "Alright… I understand you cannot forgive me now, but perhaps you can consider… being my friend." You hike up your brows. "See," he looks exasperated, "I should have gone with the full version of the speech. What I meant is that we do not have to be strangers, cold and hostile, and avoid each other in the passages. We can coexist peacefully… Oh Mahal, it sounds even worse..." He rubs his face with his palm. "Perhaps reach some sort of an arrangement that would be comfortable for both of us." You shift your weight between your feet. "But mostly for you, of course." He adds hastily, and you feel like giggling again.

You look around your new garden and then back at the remorseful King in the middle of the room, and for the first time since your return you do not feel like running or hiding. Perhaps you can still be at peace in Erebor. You now have your own garden!

He is peering at you, waiting for your answer. You are treading carefully, cautiously choosing the words, "I think we can find some way to still live together, as King and Queen, as our children's parents." He nods and seems relieved. "And perhaps," you look down at your hands, "One day we can be friends again." That is not much, but it is all you can offer at the moment. You look at him and he solemnly nods.

Then he looks at you and gives you a small smile. "I am reposing for the day then, my lady, enjoy your garden." He turns around and starts leaving. "Thorin," he sharply turns around, his name a forgotten treat on your lips, "Thank you for..." Your voice breaks, now it is you who has no words. But he understands. A warm smile in his eyes, he says softly, "You are welcome, my lady." And he exits the room.

Five days later you are standing on a ladder and try to pick up a small pot with echinacea from the top shelf, Thror and Unna standing nearby, when Aras inside you decides it is time for his daily training. You suspect your older nephew by marriage is right, and the youngest prince is endeavouring to become a legendary swordsman. The thrusts and lunges of his small extremities inside you are increasingly more lively every day. You grasp the shelf and take a big breath. Aras performs what feels like a somersault, and you yelp. In your small frame it feels as if he is bouncing from wall to wall there. You carefully place the pot back on the shelf and realize you need help.

"Thror, go call your father, I cannot seem to get down," Thror darts back to your chambers. It is an early morning and the King is in his study, adjoint to the sleeping chambers. In a moment you hear hasty steps approaching.

The King comes in and look at you. You are slightly bent, one hand grasping the shelf, another rubbing your stomach, in a futile attempt to pacify your highly animated son. "I cannot get down, he would not stop kicking me," the King chuckles and carefully steps on the ladder. He climbs up and wraps one arm around you. You cannot seem to be able to let go of the shelf.

"Kurdu, you need to hold on to me now," you shake your head violently, Aras is seemingly performing cartwheels inside you. The King looks highly amused, and you hiss at him. He places his palm on your middle and speaks softly and cordially, "Common, little one, let us allow your mother go down this ladder." His fingers are splayed on the round stomach, and he gently strokes. His palm is burning you through the thin linen of your simple homegown.

Suddenly there is a complete lack of movement inside you, and you can finally breath in. You ease your grip on the shelf and wrap your arms around the King's neck. He smirks and pulls you closer. "Ready to descent, my Queen?" You feel tension leaving your body, and irritation rising, you puff air out in indignation. Judging by the sardonic smirk, he will never let you live this down.

"Amad, you can do it!" The children cheer from the floor, and that makes you feel even more humiliated. Unna start jumping and squealing in delight. "Adad saved her! Like a prince in a legend!" And you thought it could not have gotten worse. The black brow crawls up, and you finally realize you are in the increasingly tighter embrace of your estranged husband.

"Do I get a reward for saving a beautiful princess?" You glare at him, that is just low, using your children in his manipulations. Unna is beyond herself, "A kiss of course!" You clench your jaw and stare at him, your eyes clearly sending a "do not dare" message. And suddenly Thror chimes in and you start suspecting that he is not that ignorant to the discord between his parents, "You have to give him a kiss, amad, such are the rules."

You are playing coy, "Obviously, but he has to save me first, he will receive his reward on the ground. Now can we please go down?" The King chuckles. "You do realize that I know you rather well, kurdu?" He is murmuring and then pulls you in and catches your mouth.

The world sways, and you lose sense of anything around except his warm familiar lips and his breath mixing with yours. His beard scratches your skin, and you moan. He tears his lips from yours before the kiss turns into something much more inappropriate in front of your children, but you can see he is equally affected. His pupils are dilated, blue irises almost fully hidden by the blackness, he is breathing heavily, and something, very familiar as well, is pressing into your thigh.

You gulp and pointedly look down at his trousers. "I can probably go down myself now. Would you like a moment on the top, my Lord?" His eyes widen and you bite your tongue. Mahal help you, that is definitely not what you meant to say. "At the top step. Perhaps you could get me the pot, that one?" You point at a random plant, and he nods. "That might be reasonable, my lady."

You slowly get down and embrace your children. "Amad is saved!" Unna is dancing around you. You smile to her and then lead them back to their chambers. You do not see the King all day, mostly due to your skilful avoiding any places where he might be. You fall in your narrow bed in the evening, your head heavy, and thoughts confused.


	18. Chapter 18

He is holding you to his chest in his sleep, massive arms wrapped around you, and you slowly open your eyes. The light is falling on the bed through the stained glass window in merry colourful shapes, scattered on the sheets and the green canopy of your oaktree bed. You feel him stir out of his sleep as well, and then one of the hand slides on your breast. The long nose is buried in your hair, and then you feel the beard scratch you nape. Tender warm lips follow, small playful kisses on your neck, on the shoulder peeking out of the cut of the nightdress, and then he slightly lifts his torso and kisses pepper your jawline. You stay still, and he gently rubs the peak of your breast through the gauzy fabric. The teat pebbles, and you hum. The hot mouth catches your ear, and you push your pelvis back.

Suddenly he rolls on his back, pulling you on top of him, your back to his chest, your legs falling on the sides of his body. You snicker, and then, while one of his large palms continues to caress your breasts, knowing exactly what brings you pleasure, the second one bunches up your nightdress. He wraps his arm around your middle and shifts your body. His wide tip presses into your folds. You sigh and open up wider, and then adjusting the angle you take him in. You both moan, the familiar feeling of connectedness and wholeness flooding you two. After the first few movements, you both are moaning louder, he from the steep curve, you from his length pressing and rubbing on the perfect spot on your inner walls. He starts moving slowly, his hands gently wrapped around your hips, bobbing you up and down, pressing your pelvis down onto his hot length. You add a swirl in the move of your hips, and there is a low rumble in his chest. You pick up speed, pushing from the bed with your feet, arching your back, gentle caresses turning into passionate thrusts…

And you wake up with a jerk. Your heart is beating painfully, wetness between your thighs, the night dress sticking to your heated body. You roll and press your face into the pillow. You think back at yesterday and groan. You were rather surprised, to be honest, that the libidinous thoughts had not returned earlier. It has been so long, and your relationships with the King previously were very passionate. Nonetheless, until this night any thought of carnal pleasures has not even come to your mind. Since the kidnapping you seem to have forgotten you had a body. And now you remember. And the body is aching, every muscles tense, your inner walls clenching, demanding satisfaction. You moan in distress, it is not demanding just a release, it is demanding him. His weight on you, his heat, his length, the forceful thrusts, the tender licks and sucks... You grab handfuls of your hair.

You are a midwife and you also had two pregnancies already, you know the increased appetites such time bring to a woman's life. Your hunger for the King in those months was unquenchable. You press your lips and decide to address the issue. You slide your fingers under your drenched drawers and push one digit inside yourself. The sensation jolts through your body, even that much is enough, it has been almost five moons since your body demanded release, and you quickly bring yourself to climax. You clench your teeth and ignore the mental images before your eyes that the rupture brings. His hands on your body, his lips, his eyes burning with love and lust… You jump out of the bed and rush to the bath chambers. You feel you need a long cleansing bath.

In your agitation you forget to knock at the door of the bedroom that you need to cross to get to the bath chambers. When you knocked after the first night you spent in the dressing room, there was a long tense pause and then the King's voice, choked and gruff, allowed you entrance. Since then every time you move between the rooms you knock.

He is not even supposed to be in the chambers, at this time usually he is already awake and has finished his breakfast. You would assume he would be working in his study at this time. You freeze in front of him sitting on the bed and reading a book. He is wearing a light tunic and breeches, he is barefoot, his wide body relaxed into the pillows, legs crossed. He lifts his eyes at you, and his brows hike up. You realize what you look like.

You are wearing a thin, sheer nightdress, the robe forgotten on a chair near your bed, your shoulders naked, and your bosom bursting out of the low cut of your gown. To be honest, pregnancy is the only time when you have any bosom at all. But these months abundantly compensate for years of pathetic flatness. Your hair grew out in Mirkwood and now it reaches your buttocks. It is disheveled, mostly from thrashing in your sleep, but also from pressing your head back into the pillows just a moment ago. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes wide open, pupils most likely dilated. You are momentarily terrified. Did you moan?

You gulp and then dart back into the dressing room. You close the door and press your back to it. And only then you realize the absurdity of your behaviour. You just ran from seeing your estranged husband in his bedroom, where he has every right to be. And probably he just heard you pleasuring yourself. You are certain his name was not mentioned, but you are generally very vocal. There surely were moans. You pull the robe on and straighten your back. You cannot hide here forever.

You exhale and knock. "Yes?" His voice is laced with laughter. You grind your teeth. You are certain he will use this opportunity to humiliate you to no end. You step into the bedchamber. He put the book down on his lap and smiles to you blissfully. "Good morning, my lady." "Good morning, my Lord, I did not expect to see you here at this hour. Are you faring well?" Your voice sounds sarcastic, a defense mechanism no doubt. "Not quite," he makes sad eyes. "I seem to have pulled my back yesterday, too much garden work I suppose," his eyes are mirthful, and you clench your jaw. He is mocking you. "I will send a healer to examine you, my Lord. Perhaps Master Nali is the best choice for it." The mentioned healer is large, fierce looking, his arms massive and hairy. He is also known for popping his patients' joints back in place mercilessly while swearing in Khuzdul under his breath. You stomp into the bath chambers and pointedly lock the door behind yourself. You think you hear a low chuckle behind.

You sink into the hot fragrant water and try to relax. You breathe in the herbal essences and enjoy the soft touch of the soapbark suds caressing your skin. Your body is still oversensitive, the images from your dream returning to your mind, fueled by seeing the King in his state of undress. Surely his tunic was half open by design. You could never resist running your fingers through his chest hair. And then the absurdity of the situation reaches your understanding. Usually those are women who use their carnal allure to bend men to their will. The King Under the Mountain is a temptress!

You start laughing and cannot seem to stop, you flail your arms and suddenly slip under the water. You swallow a mouthful of bath water and start coughing. There is knock at your door, "Are you alright, my lady?" You sit up and laugh harder. First of all, is his back suddenly so much better that he could get up and run to the door? Secondly, you imagine him using this opportunity to kick the door open and save you from the horrible demise in soap bubbles. And grope you in the process. You suppress your frolics to answer, "I am alright!" And then you go back to roaring with laughter. Your life is an absurd conundrum these days.

You are still chuckling when you climb out of the tub and wrapped in your robe you step out of the bath chambers. The King is in the same position, but you think that the tunic is open slightly more. You shake your head. Self-assured, overconfident, cantankerous…

You walk back to the dressing room with your head held high but then you cannot help but execute a small revenge. You push the door to close behind yourself but start pulling off the robe before it is fully shut. You are certain that he catches the glimpse of your naked buttocks. Especially, considering the choked sound you can hear before the door closes. That will teach him a lesson.

You are smiling and getting dressed, and then you freeze with an undertunic clasped in your hands. You realize that you did exactly what he was trying to achieve. You joined his game. He knew you would not be able to resist, playfulness and flirting a constant element of your previous relationships, your behaviour always slightly on the border of inappropriate, kisses stolen in the passages, quick rough tumbles all over the Erebor Halls, in the stables, more than once in the forges, and even the throne room. You loved playing this game with him, teasing and tempting, always seducing each other. Except that was the game he played with his wife. And she is gone now.

You sit on the settee and stare at your hands. Unlike him you know that allowing the flame between you too to rekindle and grow will not solve anything. You cannot build a marriage on lust. You quickly put on your most modest dress and step into the bedchambers. You do not knock and catch him sitting in a tense pose obviously waiting for your return. "We need to talk, my Lord."


	19. Chapter 19

He scoots back to the headboard of the bed and folds his arms on the chest. "Of course, my lady. Is there something I can help you with?" His tone is highly suggestive, but you have already sobered up. You sit on a chair by the wall and clasp your hands on your lap.

His eyes become guarded. You suspect he was hoping you would sit on the bed. "I will be direct with your, my Lord, I think we have started forgetting that we are not..." You pause, but judging by the suddenly tense jaw line he understands where you are leading to. "Married?" His tone is even, but you flinch internally. You know this muted low voice, it is a customary prelude to his raging.

You need to be firm. You mentally berate yourself for your escapade with the robe. How could you be so stupid and let him pull you into this game? You nod. "I understand I behaved improper myself..." "There was nothing improper in your behaviour, my Queen. You are allowed to show your naked backside to your husband in the privacy of your bed chambers." You bite your lips painfully.

"No, I am not," you wish your voice had more strength in it, "I am not your wife and we are not in the privacy of our rooms, it is your bed chamber now, my Lord." He slides off the bed in a swift fluid movement. So your suspicions about his nonexistent back injury prove right. He does not approach you, but you already feel suffocated. He is an intimidating presence even when he is not hardly containing his rage, which he probably will be able to do for another two minutes, not more.

"But you are," he takes a deep breath in and softens his tone, "You are angry with me now, I understand, but you cannot deny the fire is back."

You lift your eyes from your hands and look at him. You knew he will see it this way and you are bracing yourself for what will follow. You go through different ways of explaining it to him in your head. How can you convince him to see it as it is? That though the passion is back, your marriage is still ruined. You still do not trust him. And the desires of your and obviously his body if fulfilled will only aggravate your predicament. What will you do when the carnal hunger is satisfied? Go back to your rooms? You surely cannot return to what you had before. You cannot sleep in the same bed with him, share yourself with him, let him back in.

"The fire is not enough," you are praying to Mahal he understands. "We know each other, we know each other's bodies, of course, the hunger is there. It does not change anything," you shake your head and get up too. You need to get your point through. "We just started talking, just started being something of friends," you stretch your hands to him trying to convey your meaning.

"I know you, you are my wife, and I can see you desire me," he is almost snarling. You breath out, he is missing the point. There is no sense in denying the obvious nonetheless. "I do," he makes a step ahead, "but I will not bed you." He freezes on his steps.

Then he gives you a venomous smirk and lifts his chin disdainfully. "So you wish to prolong the punishment..." "It is not a punishment!" You raise your voice and immediately reprimand yourself. You need to stay calm. "We are not animals to copulate when our hearts are not into it."

"But they are," he makes a few quick strides and grabs your upper arms. "You are angry with me, and deservingly so, but maybe it is time to stop this nonsense! Come back to our chambers, to our bed, stop pretending you do not wish it!" You jerk out of his grip and step back.

"Are you blind, Thorin? I am not pretending! I truly do not want you any more! Not as my husband, not as my companion! I am not angry with you! I do not know you anymore!" You see his mind racing, his blue eyes narrowed.

"Then get to know me again. We can try again, just start from the beginning!" "There is no starting from the beginning for us! And I already know what you are capable of, and I do not want any of it!" Your last sentence is a scream, each word separate from another, punctuated with a cutting movement of your hand.

He is growling, his chest heaving, fists clenched. "So you will continue living in my house," he emphasizes the possessive pronoun, and you narrow your eyes, "taunt me every day, share my meals, sleep just behind a wall from me, and you assume I will tolerate this?!" He is roaring and steps towards you.

He is terrifying, eyes ablaze, teeth bared, and you take another tumbling step back. But then you straighten your shoulders. "Yes. You will tolerate it if you want me to continue being the Queen in your Kingdom." "Curse the Kingdom!" He spits the words out. You do not yield. "And if you want to see your children."

He hisses through his teeth, "Do not threaten me, it is not wise!" And then you take a step towards him. You clench your own fists, "Or what, my Lord? You will banish me from my home and take away my children? Oh wait, is it not what this all started with?" He halts, his face losing its fury. "Oh, and do not forget to leave me somewhere where I do not have a single friend and preferably in a house of a man you are jealous of! It will definitely show me that you are a preferable suitor to him! Oh, and also somewhere where with time I will gain respect and loyalty from people of the land, and appreciation for my talents! Maybe somewhere where they have green leaves, the land breathes in Spring, and plants and herbs do not have to be crammed in tiny pots! Where with time I am loved and trusted beyond measure!" He takes a step back from you.

"And where Aras can practise his magic in peace and not be judged on the grounds that he is not Dwarven enough! Because he will not be, ever!" The King blanches. "He is my son, he will be lithe and delicate, and love trees and grasses, and one day you will be cruel to him like you were to me. One day you will throw him out like me, will you not?" He is silent.

"I sacrificed everything for you. I gave up my life and I chose Erebor, its stone walls, its darkness and coldness, because you promised me that it will be a good home for my sons. Do you remember that day in the Shire when you told me that Erebor would be staunch and loyal? And we laughed because we both knew that we were not talking about your city but about you? Well, you lied."

He is immobile, his face pained. "So, you see, my Lord, it does not matter that I desire your body, I have not had a man since the night you bedded me before my trip to Rivendell that was so unfortunately interrupted by a band of filthy bandits kidnapping and dragging me on my knees to their burrow." His face contorts in agony. "I do not need a man just to satisfy my lust. I have never been a person to indulge in pure carnal pleasures, and I am not going to start now." You turn around and leave the bed chamber.

One step ahead, three steps backwards, that is what your relationships with the King are. Perhaps, not talking to each other is a much better idea. Surely, in the halls so large as Erebor one can avoid another person for days. Perhaps, even months.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: I love it, my lovelies, how perceptive you are in your premonitions regarding this story :) All your reviews are highly appreciated, and I love how you are predicting the upcoming grievances! There are still plenty for our couple to overcome, but remember! It will all end well! :)**

The next two days you do not see the King, he is not present at the meals, he is not in the bedchambers when you go to bed, he is not there when morning comes. On the third day Unna disappears from her room. As it has happened before, her miraculous escapes from locked chambers forever an unsolved mystery, the alarmed chaperone does not come to you until before midday meal.

The poor girl is remorseful and panicked. After four more hours all the court is in search of the princess. Rooms all through Erebor Halls are being open, Dwalin rushes down to the forges, the King sends a few Dwarves to the library. Thror swears he has not seen his sister all day.

You are shaking, opening door after door, you hear voices ringing through the Royal Halls, and suddenly nauseating wave overcomes you, you are sagging on the floor. Through a strange daze you hear a worried voice of your maid and you feel her touching your shoulder. A jumble of images is rushing through your mind, a burning shiver running through your nerves, and your body jolts. You hear worried cries, a vague silhouette of a large Dwarven body bending over you, obstructing light, and you gasp for air.

"My Queen," a courtier voice sounds dulled, echoed, and you rasp, "Mines, she is in the mines..." You shake your head to clear your mind and grab someone's sleeve. "The King, call me the King..."

You are sitting on a bench, someone is handing you a glass of water, when among blurred colourful stains with a strange clarity you see the King's blue eyes. "What is it? Are you alright? Where is Unna?"

You grab the sides of his tunic. "I saw her, Aras showed me… She is in the mines, but I could not see the details… It is some narrow tunnel, she is safe, conscious..." You see doubt run across his face. "You have to trust me, Thorin, he showed me…" The King nods and picks you up in his arms.

He carries you down to the entrance to the mines, and by the time you enter the narrow passage leading down to the dark belly of the Lonely Mountain, you seemingly recover some of your strength. He lowers you on the floor, and you stumble through the doorway.

The surge of golden magic rushes to your palms, your arms jerk, and a cascade of sparks falls from your hands. They scatter through the passage, jump and bounce, reminiscent of embers or drops of melted metal, and then they trickles along a wall and turn around the corner. You rush after them, the King at your heels, and you see the tail of a golden stream disappear in an air vent in a wall near the floor. You fall on your knees and peer inside.

Unna is sitting at the very back by the bars covering the other end of the shaft, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her face is pouty and stubborn, chin lifted up, she is covered in dirt and soot from head to toe.

"Oh Mahal, she is here," you momentarily turn to your husband, and he leans to the wall, relieved. "Unna, can you hear me? It is me, Unna, can you come out?" She gives you a precise mimic of her father's haughty look. "Of course I can come out. It is wide enough, since I did manage to get in." You hear someone approaching from behind, but the King sends them away.

You stretch your hand to her, "Unna, take my hand, I will help you." "I do not need help, I am not coming out. I am perfectly fine in here." You start panicking. "What do you mean you are not coming out? Please, take my hand." She pouts more and stares at the wall. "I do not want to. I do not like it there anymore." "Where there, Unna?" "In the halls," she looks at you as if you are dim. "Why?" Your knees are starting to hurt on the stone floor.

"You are fighting with adad. You do not love him anymore like before. He does not come anymore. I saw Thror crying," your heart stops, and it is hard to breath. "Unna, come out. We can talk about it, you just need to come out." "I want adad." "He is here," you look up at him. He is pale, obviously having heard all of it. He is looking at you, as if asking what he should do. You point at the vent with your eyes and move half a foot aside. He kneels and looks into the shaft.

"What are you doing there, haban?" His voice is soft, and he stretches his hand now, "Come out." "Are you going to come back?" Her tone is strict. "I have not left anywhere, haban, I was preoccupied, but I was home." "You were not, you did not eat with us. And you do not hug amad anymore." You hear her sniff, and you bite on your bottom lip. "I want everything back like it was," her tone is indisputable again, it is her "I am the daughter of Thorin Oakenshield" tone, it does not leave any room for negotiations. "I want everything to be well."

"Everything is well, haban," the King is a bad actor, and you put your palm on his shoulder. He looks at you, and then for the first time in months you are having your usual silent conversation. You frown and slightly shake your head. One cannot lie to a child, eventually the truth comes out, they are much more perceptive than they are given credit. He licks his lips, and then concedes and turns back to the vent.

"Haban, you are right. Amad and I have been very upset recently, but not with you or Thror. We have grown-up matters that make us sad and a bit angry. It has nothing to do with you two." "And Aras?" Unna is pondering his words. "And Aras of course, everything is well for you three." "Have you hurt amad's feelings? I do it sometimes, and she has this face… She was crying in the dressing room again, and then in the garden yesterday. I saw her hugging your shirt and stroking it," she adds in the conspiratorial whisper, and he looks at you askew. "Have you said you were sorry, adad? It can help."

He turns to you and looks into your eyes. You shake your head. The most important thing right now is to pull her out of this shaft, the convoluted relationships that you two have ended up in are of no importance now.

"I have not, haban. But I will. Let us do it that way. You will come out, and I promise you I will apologise to amad. And we will have all our meals together after that, alright?" He stretches his hand to her again, and she gives his a suspicious look. "Do you promise you will mend this?" He pauses and then nods solemnly. "I promise you, Unna, I will mend it." A small dirty hand lies in his palm, and he pulls her out, presses her to his chest, and then grabbing the back of your neck, he pulls you in as well. With your daughter's small body locked between you two, you close your eyes and let relief and an acute feeling of guilt wash over you.

After a bath and a dinner, she is finally asleep, and you are tucking in Thror. He is quiet, you kiss his forehead, and he sighs. You get up to leave, but then you turn to him. "Thror," a pair of his father's blue eyes stares at you, "Adad and I have been very angry with each other, but it is neither your, nor Unna's fault. It has nothing to do with Aras either. And we are sorry that we made you two sad. We will mend it, and we will spend time together again, and will go to Dale to the market again, and once Aras is born, we will start going to those pony rides again. Do you believe me?" He gives it a thought and then smiles. "If you promise me that it will get better, amad, I believe you." You lean in and kiss his forehead. "It will get better, Thror."

The King is sitting on the bed, his head grasped between his large palms. You sit on the bed near him, and he lifts pained eyes at you. "What are we doing, Zundushinh?" His voice is broken, he sounds lost. You lower your head, tears running down your face.

You start speaking, you voice shaking, "It is all my fault, all my fault…" He looks at you in confusion. "I just cannot seem to forgive you, I just cannot remember why I married you..." You hear him take a sharp breath in. "And I am hurting everyone, hurting our children…" You hide your face in your palms, "I am so sorry… You are right, we should just start anew… I will be a good wife for you and a good mother to your children…" He jerks away from you.

"You are forgetting I am the one who should ask for forgiveness!" "I do not care anymore, Thorin, I just do not want my children to suffer. From my stubbornness, from my hatred…" "I did not realize you hate me," his voice is raspy. "I do not hate you, I hate what you did to me. But I will forget. We have no other choice. We have to go on for our children, we have to make them happy…"

He gets up and walks to the window. You are staring at his tense wide back. "No," the word is like a slap for you, "I cannot do this," his voice is dark, "Not like this… I do not need you to stay with me for the children… I need you to want to stay." "I want to stay…" "You are lying!" He roars and turn to you, face contorted. "You rather obviously let me know you do not desire me as your husband anymore. And I do not need a woman who only pretends she wants to be in my life and in my bed." You lower your head. You have thought of it. You could do it, pretend to be the woman you were before. And it would not be hard to pretend you enjoy being in his bed. Perhaps you would not have to pretend at all.

"Then what do we do?" You ask and look at him. His face is stern, lips in a hard line, and you are terrified.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Did I mentioned I have three more chapters for this story stashed? This is number one:)**

"We talk," he sits back on the bed. And then he suddenly chuckles. It is so absurd at the moment then you feel your jaw drop. A strange small smile plays on his lips. "Remember how you taught me to talk about my feelings?" You blink, baffled, and then you remember. Hot furious blush spreads on your cheeks. Sometime before the wedding, already expecting Thror you decided that you wanted to marry a man who could discuss his feelings openly. Somehow it felt logical to encourage it with favours in bed. Very often you were bolstering the King's confessions by a forceful clench of inner muscles while straddling him. Even more often you were not able to return the favour by revealing your own feelings since your mouth would be busy. You squirm on the bed. He chuckles again and then shakes his head.

Then his face grows serious again. "I was blind, I can see it now. I was deceiving myself and convincing myself you are just having those… How did you call my temper outbursts? Dwarven paroxysms?" You nod. He smirks joylessly. "I could see you were adamant but I just could not accept it. I was bending you to my will again, was I not?" He does not seem to be needing an answer. "From now on I will stop. I will respect your will and your desires."

"But..." "Do not interrupt me, zundush, you know how hard it is for me to talk about such things." You shut your mouth. He looks at you from a corner of his eye. "Especially when it does not involve your naked body." You look at him helplessly. "Do you not desire me at all, zundush?" He gets distracted from him confessional talking. You shift uncomfortably on the covers. But then he lifts his hand. "Forgive me, I should not have… What was I saying? Ah, right." He gets up and starts pacing in front of you.

"I also felt you were being unnecessarily cruel... And cold… And manipulative… I just could not understand that you were not trying to extract anything from me. I thought I just had to guess what gift or gesture you expected from me, and I would get you back. But you do not want anything from me..." He stops in front of you, and you start shaking. His face is calm and sad. "I can see it now. I so often forget that it is you.. I seem to forget what you are like, zundush," he kneels in front of you and picks up your hands, "My fair, noble Wren from Enedwaith, an honourable healer from Dale, my benevolent Queen." Tears are running down your cheeks.

"I just want my children to be happy..." He nods and presses his face to your palms. "Of course you do, zundush. I know that." "And you, my Lord... I want you to be happy too, but I cannot give you what you are asking of me..." He nods into your hands again, "I know that too. And I know now I have no right to ask."

You two are sitting in silence for a bit. It feels like a farewell, and you start crying quietly. You feel dampness where his face is pressed into your hands as well. Then a shiver runs through his body, and he lifts his face. His eyes are indeed red, his jaw clenched. "I can not let you go… Not only because I cannot part with my children, but I cannot… I cannot not go on without you…"

"I would never ask for that, my Lord." He is pondering, his mind racing. "We need to set some rules, to make it tolerable… I am now clear on your desires, I will not force you in anything, just stay…" He looks into your eyes pleadingly. You nod and whisper, "We need to stay together, spend time with children, but also have to stop lying to them. They need to be certain that neither of us is leaving, but they have to know that it will not be the same. It is better if they just know what is happening, as opposed to suspecting that something is wrong." He nods.

"And we need to share our meals." "Yes," he agrees, "And perhaps spend some time together from time to time, I am certain we can be civilized." You give him a look. "I can be civilized," he corrects, and then you think there is a shadow of a smile on his lips.

"And I promise not to ask you to perform your marital duties," you hike up your brows, "if you promise not to taunt me with your naked buttocks." You manage to suppress a smile but only just.

"And I think the less time we spend together, the better, zundush," he gets up and rubs his face with his palms, "I am afraid my determination will waver. Repeatedly and often." You nod. It is what you wanted from the start. Why do you feel so brokenhearted?

You both keep your promises, and life returns to its mundane order. You are friendly and even with each other, even when the children cannot see you, you knock at doors when moving between the chambers, and you do not catch his eyes on yourself anymore. And even if you do, they are removed and doleful, no fervour or hope left in them. Spring and Summer pass, spent in everyday errands and joyful trips to the woods and to Dale. Thror receives a new shield for his birthday, Unna her first ruby earrings.

The day is hot, and you are reposing in your garden on the balcony. A gauzy curtain hangs in the doorframe, allowing fresh air into the inside part of the garden, but keeping insects outside. You are following the movement of the white fabric with your eyes, when acute pain shoots through your lower back, into your abdomen, and you press your hands to your stomach. It feels like an approaching labour, and you panic. It is not time, you have four more months. Aras is well developed by now, but it is too early!

You lift your hands to your eyes, there is golden glow around them, pulsating and burning your palms. You get up through the pain and stumble to your study. Lumorn's draughts are on your table, and you take the necessary ones. The pain is dulled but present. It almost feels as if Aras is distressed. It almost feel as if he is screaming. You wobble back into the sleeping chambers and lie down. Only when your head touches the pillow, you realize you lay down on the King's bed. It has not been yours for more than a year. You close your eyes and let the comfort of his smell envelop you. You slide your hand under the pillow and bury your nose into the fabric. Something inside you is silently lamenting his absence, and you momentarily wonder if you are having one of your premonitions. In the last few months you have not felt any longing for him. At least that is what you tell yourself.

You are awoken by a loud banging at the door, and you see Dwalin stumbling through the doorframe. He is bloodied, one shoulder drooping. You gasp. "The King lives," he reassures you, and you take a sharp breath in, "But others..." You nod and hastily go to the dressing room. You do not fit into your healer's robe any more, but a simpler dress would be smart.

Their company was ambushed on their way from Ered Luin, eight Dwarves slayed, others severely injured. The King is sitting, leaning to the wall, his eyes closed. You rush through the door of the infirmary, and in the chaos of healers darting around and screams of pain you can only see his bloodied face. His eyes open, and you run through the hall. He gets up, and you slam your body into him. His arms encircle you, and your press your face into his neck. "I am alright, I am alright..." You hands are clutching his tunic, and you are breathing heavily. "Aras felt when you were injured… There was so much pain..." "It is just a scratch..." You let him go and look him over. A dirty bloodied bandage is wrapped around his right thigh, he is standing awkwardly. You inhale and frown. "That will not do." He smirks, "We did not have a skillful healer such as yourself with us. We had to make do." You lift a brow. "With your best travel tunic as I can see, my King." You sound like a reproachful wife. He picks up the tone of the conversation. "At least the arrow did not hit higher and a wee bit to the left." You roll up your eyes. "Oaf." He gives you a lopsided smirk. You breath out in relief and remember yourself. It is time to set to work.

Few hours later you leave the infirmary to rest. You are once again disturbed how this parturiency differs from the previous two. You constantly need rest, while those times your habits and errands hardly changed. On your way through the passages you run into Balin talking to three women. You realize these are the now widows of the fallen warriors. You approach them and express your sympathy. One of them is young, and she is not crying, her pupils dilated, face pallid. You understand she is still in stupour, and you silently point at her with your eyes to Balin. He nods in understanding. She is yet to realize what happened in her life.

After talking to them for an hour, you drag yourself to the sleeping chambers and fall on the bed again. You have no strength to question your choice. You wake up from the King's palm stroking your cheek. You sit up and wrap your arms around his neck. It is the closest you have been in months, and it feels right.

You feel him tremble, and you stroke his hair. "Another one succumbed to his wounds..." You press him into you tighter. "He shielded me when they attacked..." You let him talk about the ambush, and he is pressing his face into your neck. You feel hot tears on your skin, and you stroke his shoulders. He falls asleep in your arms, and you climb out of the bed. You spend an hour sitting in front of each of your children's beds. You go to your study and cry, mourning the fallen warriors and praying to Mahal, grateful for bringing your husband back to you. Whatever your marriage turned into these days, whatever uncertainty you harbour in your heart, all of it seemed to matter so little when you saw his pale, bloodied face in the infirmary. You open the modest wooden chest on your table and touch Nyrnala with the tips of your fingers. And you wonder how much uncertainty there is in fact in your heart.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Obviously, a bit of scare might shake some sense into a person. We all are in constant danger to lose our loved ones, and we easily forget about it. Except in Middle Earth this is an even more tangible danger :) An Orc arrow to a knee at any point of time :D**

Two months later, you reach the fourteen months mark in your pregnancy when nightmares start. The first time it happens you wake up with a scream. You are shaking and sobbing, pressing your blanket to your chest. It is dark, and you suddenly panic. You stumble out of your bed and rush into the bedchamber. As little as you have seen of your estranged husband in the last moons, you crave his presence. The bed is empty, and you feel you are losing your mind. Dry heaves come faster and faster, and you are sagging on the floor. "Thorin!.. Thorin!" Your voice is high, breaking, but your hear something crash on the floor in his study, and he rushes in the bedroom. He does not notice you on the floor right away, and you whimper.

He falls on his knees on the floor in front of you and cups your face. "What is it? Is it the baby?" You are shaking your head and grabbing handfuls of his rumpled shirt. You are clawing at him, pulling him closer, and he wraps his arms around you. Sobs quake your body. You press into him, and realize that you are mumbling, "Do not let it happen… Tell me it will not happen…" He is pressing you tighter, his large palm cupping the back of your head, his other hand rubbing your back. He is making comforting shushing noises.

It takes a while for you to calm down, you are shaking, dry sobs still choking you. He shifts and stretches his legs, and then pulls you on his lap. "What is it, kurdu?" He does not notice that he switches to your old moniker. "A battlefield… I saw them on the battlefield… All three of them, our sons, dead..." You are biting your lips and taste blood. He moves you away and peers into your face. He strokes your bottom lip with his thumb, and you let it go. "We do not have three sons, kurdu, just two. It was a nightmare..." You shake your head. He narrows his eyes. "A prophetic dream then?" "Yes, but not mine, it is Dain's." He is still peering at you. "Whose?" "Dain, our son," you rub your stomach. "We will name him Dain, and the next one Othin. And they were dead, on that battlefield… Near the black gates..." You are trembling again, and he firmly places his palms on your shoulders.

"Kurdu, listen to me. Our sons will not die in that battle. You told me many times that the dreams are just illusions, just one of the possible ways the events can unfold. Was Thror there too?" You nod. "Which proves it will not happen. He is the heir to the throne of Durin, he will not leave Erebor. He will not fight on the foreign lands, it is the duty of younger princes. What were those gates?" You bite your lips again. "They were horrific, I have never seen them before… Dark, black… And a tower… A dark tower behind them…"

"It will not happen. None of our sons will die in that battle. You will not let it happen." "I was dead by then… Will be dead by then… They were all grown up, Thror around sixty..." "And the youngest one?" "About fifty." The King is pondering. "Kurdu, you have to think calmly. Now that you have seen it, it will not transpire. You will warn them, and they will stay safe." "Would you have fought in the Battle of the Five Armies had you known that you were not to survive it?" You are looking into his eyes, and he shifts his gaze. But you do not need to hear his answer.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press your face into his temple. He is slightly rocking you. "So Dain has prophetic dreams too?' His voice is grave. "This is the first one." "Perhaps it is just a nightmare." You both know that you can tell the difference.

You are sitting in silence, and then he chuckles. You move slightly away and look at him. "What it is?' "Another one, after this one. Othin you said?" You consider the perspective and choose to hide into his neck again. "Like you said, my Lord, it all can change." He is still chuckling. You offer another explanation, anything rather than knowing what he is imagining right now. "Perhaps it will be a mistake, one night of misjudgement, and..." You are not convincing either of you, and you peek. He is pressing his lips together to suppress a grin, and you smack his shoulder.

He catches your hand and presses your knuckles to his lips. You feel warm and safe in his arms, but you know you need to get up. A few more seconds you will not be able to leave. "Why were you in your study, my Lord?" He is silent. "My Lord?" "I fell asleep at the desk. Again." You straighten in his arms and look at him. You notice that the clothes are rumpled and the beard is slightly unkept. Perhaps for others he looks the same but for the wife's eyes he has an overall unkempt look. And then you remind yourself you are not his wife.

You climb out of his embrace and he does not stop you. It takes several attempts since you are rather bulbous these days, but you straighten up and smooth your nightdress. He remains on the floor, his hands lying on his knees passively. You do not know what to say so you just mumble "Goodnight" and go back to bed.

The next night the nightmares come back, this time all three of your sons are bloodied and pierced with multiple arrows, their bodies floating near a bank of River Running. You recognize the place, and you scream, pressing your hands to your chest. The door bursts open, and you are scooped into the Kings arms. You are crying and he is rocking you, more soothing murmuring from him, more desperate weeping from you. You are clenching his tunic, he is stroking your hair. You tell him the nightmare, and he nods gravely. He stays by your side until you fall asleep again.

The night after that you are dreading sleep, lying awake, you are staring into the ceiling when you hear a gentle knock at your door. "Yes?" The King comes in and sits on the edge of your bed. "Would you like me to stay here tonight?" You ponder his offer. Surely, he cannot sleep on a chair. He sees your expression and hurries to reassure you, "I will be alright, that would not be the first time," he tries to enlighten the mood but you press your lips together. You cannot invite him to your bed, there is not enough room, especially now that you are increasingly round.

"Sleep, kurdu, I will stay," you intertwine your fingers with his and close your eyes. The nightmare is predictably on time, right after the midnight, and this time you do not need to call. You tell him of their corpses on the grass in a field under the walls of the White Citadel, and he is sighing.

And finally, the night after that you come out of the bath chamber. The King is sitting on the oakbed waiting for you. He gets up to follow you in the dressing room but you shake your head. You take a deep breathe, bite your bottom lip and clench your fists. And then you walk past him and decisively pull off the covers from the bed. His eyes widen in disbelief. You climb under them and look at him. The question is quite obvious in his eyes, and you pat his half of the bed with your hand.

You have ordered the sheets to be changed during the day, and you slide down, the smell of Pearly Everlasting fills your nose, you have placed the sachets of the dried flowers in the closets yourself, and you feel the King's weight sink the other side of the bed. He is hesitant, and again you move first. You press your back into him, and he turns on his side, envelops you into his arms, and you can feel his frantically beating heart. His hand lies on your round stomach, and your son gives his a greeting in a form of a merry kick under your ribs and into his palm. The King chuckles. You groan. "There is positively no room for him there any more, I do not understand how he manages to still kick."

His nose is buried in your hair, and you feel him take a deep breath in. You settle more snuggly into him and close your eyes. You notice that the King is still, seemingly cautious not to move a single muscle in his body. You suppose it can even be considered chivalrous, and you snort. But then there is one group of muscles he has no control over, not after all this abstinence, and it decides to rebel. You feel him go even more rigid but it does not help. You can feel the length stubbornly growing, pressed to your buttocks, and he groans.

You giggle. "Oh Mahal, help me now..." You giggle more, was he hoping you would not notice? "Can we please just pretend it is not happening, my lady?" His voice is desperate. "It is rather hard to ignore," you just cannot refrain from your usual puns. You slightly turn to look at him. Even in the dim moon light you can see the frenetic blush on his cheekbones. You start laughing, and then he joins you, and you realized you have not laughed together for more than a year.

When your frolics subside, you return to your position and settle back into him, his member still fully erect. You suppress another chuckle and murmur, "Good night, my Lord." You receive a sigh in return. "Good night, my lady." The nightmare do not come.

You open your eyes in the bed that does not belong to you anymore and stare at the sleeping Dwarf by your side. Even in his sleep he looks exhausted, harsh lines and dark shadows on his face, lips pressed in a bitter line, and you stretch your hand and touch the silver on his temple. What has happened to you two?

One of his hands is clenched around a handful of your nightdress, another fisted on the pillow. As though without your will, the tips of your fingers touch the inside of his wrist and the hand opens, fingers relax, and sudden piercing tenderness floods you. You move slightly closer and press your lips to the tender skin. You know that texture and remember how you were surprised to find this gentle spot for the first time. His eyes fly open and he is staring at you. You can see he is doubting whether you are real, and you shift and press your lips to his.


	23. Chapter 23

His hands slide around your ribs and he gently pulls you in. You caress his neck and then tread your fingers into his hair. His lips are gentle, almost hesitant, and you deepen the kiss. You push his lips open with your tongue, and he sighs and obeys. One of his hands cups the back of your head. You stomach between you two does not let your move closer, and you groan in irritation. A ridiculous thought comes to your mind that you should have done it before when your baby was smaller. And then you get distracted, because he is stroking your cheekbones with his thumb, while his warm fingers are on your neck, on the hairline, and your moan into his mouth.

He pushes you slightly back and rises over you, his weight on his elbow, continuing to kiss you, another hand stroking your face. You wrap your arms around his middle. His caresses become more confident, and he slides his free hand down your neck. You twist your mouth from under his to remind him that the breasts are too sensitive to be touched, they actually hurt most of the time, but his hand already skips them and lies on your ribs. You smile into his lips. He remembers. He lifts his face and looks into your eyes. You are smiling to each other, and then he tilts his head and kisses your jawline. You move your head to allow him more access, and he presses one kiss after another on your neck and then collarbones. You tingle from head to toe.

His hand slides down, around the curve of your stomach and lies on your thigh. He strokes it through the night gown and then stops. He lifts his lips from yours and looks you in the eyes. "What are we doing, kurdu?" His eyes are vulnerable, he is genuinely asking for your guidance, and your heart clenches. You stroke his beard, and he closes his eyes under the caress. "I do not know… I just felt it was… What we should be doing." He opens his eyes, and they are pained. "And after that?" He is asking if you are going to kick him out of the bed after lovemaking. Or leave for that matter. Though now that you have spent the night back in your bed, you are not going anywhere again. How could you have forgotten how wonderful it is?

"Perhaps we should just try and see," you do not sound certain, and he presses his lips together. He is frowning. "I do not think that would be enough..." You are still stroking his beard with your thumb. "And what would you want instead, my Lord?"

He clenches his jaw, and you see his throat constrict. "I want my wife back." He lowers his head, and his hand tenses on your hip. "I want you back, zundush. All of you, all of us… Like it was before… " You open your mouth but he quickly presses a finger to your lips. "But I know it can not be. It took me a while to realize it, but you are right… Have been right from the start. I betrayed your trust and… ruined us... I do not know what I was thinking because I am looking at you now, and I see you every day, and I do not understand how I could have doubted you. And why I did not come back for you. The months without you were a torture, but it took living near you now to actually see you. And what my life would be without you. I think I finally had a good look," he chuckles mirthlessly, "And I think that having you here and not being able to touch you is still better that not having you at all." He strokes your stomach almost indecisively. "And one more thing, zundush. I will take every accusation you have ever thrown into my face, I deserve them all, but just one. I would never reject my son for not being a proper Dwarf," he smiles, and this time it is genuine warmth in his features, "I am hoping he is more like you than like me, to be honest. I am not particularly fond of myself these days."

You feel tears pooling in your eyes. "I am still fond of you," his eyes fly to your face, and you see them widen in surprise. "I am, Thorin, I am still so... so fond of you!.." You sob, and he scoops you into his tight embrace. You two press into each other, and he too sobs, or chuckles, or both. Arms wrap around bodies, crushing each other, hands roaming in a chaste attempt to assure yourselves that the other one is here, and you laugh. And then you find his lips, and he is kissing you in return, and you feel his tears on your face.

"Oh Mahal..." He is murmuring something in Khuzdul, between the hot greedy kisses on your jaw and your cheeks. He returns to your lips, and it is more and more heated, and soon your hands are roaming his chest, and you dig your nails into his skin through the fabric of the tunic. He is panting, unraveling under your hands and lips, and you feel dizzy and elated. And then you have to push him away and holding him at the arm's length as you are breathing heavily. He is frozen, and then his eyes fill with concern. "Is it the babe?"

You breathe through a strange contraction and nod with difficulty. You have not had that during the last two times, but again, Dain is an oddity. "Perhaps, we should not… " "Of course," he is all worry and caring, he strokes your stomach, your hands meeting on the firm sphere. The contraction subsides, and you breathe easier.

"I have a request to make, my Lord." You are frowning, still rubbing the stomach, a strange nervous knot stuck in your throat. "Anything you need, my lady," he is earnest, and you sigh. "I need to travel to Mirkwood as soon as possible. I need to see King Thranduil and the midwife, Dulindil, she helped me while I was there." You see the inner struggle in him but it is surprisingly short. "I can have the ponies prepared in two hours. We will go as soon as they are ready. Should you even ride a pony?" He is already planning in his head, and you are grateful. "A waggon might be a better idea." He nods.

He starts getting up but you pull his sleeve. "Can we stay here for a bit more?" He smiles and slides on the bed near you again. "I would love to, Zundushinh," you turn on your side and he presses his chest into your back again. You are lying down, and his hand is gently stroking your stomach. You understand that he was deprived of it for so long that he is using every chance he is given.

You are anxious. The nightmares, the contraction, the King's return to Mirkwood after what happened a year ago… He seems to imply that he is travelling with you, and you do not argue. After the kidnapping he probably cannot even think of letting you go alone. You also understand how hard it is for him, he will have to face the Elvenking, offer his apologies, and be his guest for as long as you might require. You understand and value his effort.

You catch his fingers on your stomach and pull his hand to your lips. You place a kiss on his palm, and his whole body jolts. "These dreams..." He hums, his fingers curl and envelops your hand. You are not certain how to put your feeling into words. "I do not think they are prophetic. I think they are a warning… Of something that is coming. I think Dain is aware enough to feel it, but he cannot express it..." You are not sure you are telling it right, but you feel him nod and press his cheek on the back of your head. "There is so much magic in him, and it is so raw… Dulindil told me he will be very gifted..."

You are lying in silence for a bit. "So, not just golden sparks?" You chuckle. "No, not just golden sparks. But not my strange spurts either. She said it resides in him naturally, and he will have full reign over it." "I highly appreciate your spurts, my lady," the King's tone is teasing, and your heart feels lighter, "The first one saved my life in the Erebor battle, the second one dragged me out of another possible demise in the swamps, the third one gutted and halved a warg, and then that one time when your magic protected Unna in your womb. Given the rest of the time you are as potent as those poppers that shoot pieces of colourful paper…" You kick him, and he chuckles.

"I am not that useless, I can talk to unborn babes and have prophetic dreams!" "That hardly ever come true..." He draws out, and you kick him again. He presses your legs to the bed with his heavy limb. "Behave yourself, my Queen." You snort. "When have I ever?.."

He pulls you closer to him and nuzzles your hair. "Do you wish to stay in Mirkwood until the nascency?" That would be two months if your youngest son is as punctual as the previous two. "Perhaps. I feel I need Dulindil's assistance here. I am worried," you admit and feel him nod again. The question of whether the Elvenking will allow him stay for so long remains unasked. "Surely he will not throw me out of his forest." You guess you both are thinking of the same.

You also know that he wants to ask about that night and what transpired between King Thranduil and yourself, but he does not dare. You feel some questions should stay unanswered.

Three hours later a small company of Dwarven guard, the King and yourself are ready for the trip. You embrace your children and promise to send a guard for them if you are to remain in Mirkwood for longer than a fortnight. You do not wish to part from them for an extended period. You are bundled in many layers of fur and velvet, and settled in a waggon. It will take your company at least a week to reach the Elvenking's Halls, the waggon significantly slowing you down. You see the King mount his pony, and he gives you a small encouraging smile. A strange premonition stirs in your heart, but you do not have your magic to explore it. You nod, and your journey starts.


	24. Chapter 24

The evening of the first day of your travel comes, and the guards start the fire. The Captain is well familiar, a battle hardened dark haired Dwarf, you remember briefly fighting together at the Front Gate fifteen years ago. You also delivered his second son nine years ago. He approaches you and the King with bowls of stew, and you take yours with gratitude.

You two are sitting on the open tail board of your waggon. The King is quiet, seemingly lost in his thoughts. You move closer and press your shoulder into his. He shakes off his pensiveness and smiles to you. "How are you faring, my Queen?" You scoop a spoonful of the stew and stare at a piece of carrot. "I am anxious. And for a rather embarrassing reason…" "Do you need to…?" You look at him in confusion and then understand that he is courteously offering to walk with you into the nearest bushes. You giggle. "Thank you, my Lord, but no." He smiles back. "Although perhaps later I will remind you of your considerate offer. I am anxious about tonight. What if nightmares come again? I do not think the Guard should be awoken in the middle night by their Queen screaming at the top of her lungs." He scoops his food and chews pensively.

"Perhaps if we sleep together as we did last night, they will not come." His face is completely neutral, but you know him well. He is thinking of this morning. After he got up from the bed, you have not discussed it. And yet you have almost made love this morning. And you kissed him first. And you are staring at his jaw while he is chewing his dinner.

"Perhaps it is wise," you agree in the same even tone and stuff a spoonful of stew in your mouth. And try looking elsewhere but at how his throat moves when he swallows. You do not succeed. And then he catches you staring and heady blush immediately spreads on your cheeks.

He smirks, and you poke him with the handle of the spoon between his ribs. He yelps unnecessarily loudly. "No need to look so smug, my Lord." He smiles wider. "I have every reason to look smug, my Queen. You are ogling me." You gasp in indignation. "I am not… What a preposterous thing to say! As if there is anything here that I have not seen." "And yet you keep staring at my neck." His eyes are positively sparkling with laughter.

"You are fortunate, my Lord, I am too reminiscent of a cannon ball these days, or I would have stomped away in pique from you right now." You realize you are flirting, and you are momentarily mortified. "And what a delectable cannon ball you make, my Queen..." He has the nerve to murmur it in your ear, his voice all honey and velvet!

You shove another spoonful of food in your mouth. You cannot help it, you feel all flushed and giddy. And what point did you go from running from him at every possible moment to shamelessly flirting with him? And when did you go from bitter alienation to being in love with him like a green lass?

Your fingers jerk, and you drop your spoon. You are frozen and mentally go back to your previous thought. What in the name of Mahal, the Smith of Powers was that? You turn your head and look at him. He is staring at your spoon on the ground. You are staring at his ear. He jumps off the waggon, bends down and picks it up. He looks at you, blue eyes smiling, and you cannot help it anymore.

You lean in and kiss him. It is endlessly awkward, your pregnant stomach and two bowls of stew between you two, and you have to twist your spine at an uncomfortable angle to reach him, and it is one of the best kisses in your life. He blindly pushes his bowl on the waggon, your dinner follows, and he steps as close as your condition allows. His hands cup your face, and you push yours into his hair.

It feels like coming home after a long journey, when you think everything will be strange and unfamiliar, but all you feel is warmth and piercing happiness. You sigh into his mouth, and he pushes your lips open with his tongue. The kiss is tender, loving, caressing, and you stroke his nape with the tips of your fingers. You allow yourselves a few moments, and then he steps back and clears his throat.

You peek. The guards are pointedly looking anywhere but at you two. Most of them look suspiciously pleased though, and you can see relief on the Captain's face. The rumours obviously spread through Erebor, familial discord in the royal family an unsettling and worrisome circumstance.

"Could I possibly have another spoon, my Lord?" You have to clear your throat as well. "You might have to take mine, my Queen. I am in no condition to face my warriors at the moment. And it might take a while to reign my... discomfort." You screw your eyes down. He is right, the sizable bulge in his trousers is quite obvious.

You feel very pleased with yourself. And then you berate yourself. What sort of immature attitude is that? Obviously he would be affected. You have deprived him of physical intimacy for more than a year. You shift on your seat. Your body suddenly remembers those long months as well, and expresses its displeasure by flooding your mind with the most salacious images.

You take his spoon and go back to eating your dinner. He is blatantly staring at your mouth. "You will have to stay facing this waggon for much longer if you do not find another object to focus on, my Lord," you try to feel bad for your purring tone and fluttering lashes, but you cannot. "I am inclined to consider it a worthy sacrifice." When did he become such a sweet talk?

You hum nonchalantly and then say with a mischievous smile, "Perhaps I know a way to alleviate your suffering, my Lord." His eyes leap to yours, and he cocks his black brow. He does it at least partially on purpose. He knows how it affects you. You lean in and whisper into his ear. "Think about it, my Lord, just in six short days you will be in the house of King Thranduil and enjoying his hospitality. Does this thought not kill any sort of excitement in you?" He groans and moves away from you. "Your cruelty knows no limits, my Queen." You pop another spoon into your mouth. "I am only endeavouring to help." "And it is working, my lady, I feel like all life has been sucked out of me." And then he realizes his own choice of words. He presses his palms into the board, drops his head and groans again. "You just earned yourself another ten minutes of standing here, my Lord." "I am aware, my lady, it is becoming almost painful."

After dinner and a short walk towards the river and bushes surrounding it, you settle for the night. The waggon is large enough to serve you as a makeshift bed for the night. Furs, covers, quilts and pillows are abundant, and you build yourself a semblance of a nest in it. The waggon has a canvas roof with a flap as well, which conceals you for the night. You are finishing your preparations when the King pushes his head in, shifting the flap.

"Are you comfortable, my Lady?" "Quite," you are sitting in the middle of your lavish bedding, and he smiles. "Is there anything you need?" There is hidden insecurity in his tone, and you grab the collar of his brigandine and pull him towards yourself. He chuckles and climbs in.

You both are fully dressed, not risking to take off brigandines even at night, and he pulls you into his arms. You arrange the furs around you two, and snuggle into him. You can feel his breath on the back of your head, and it feels magnificent. He intertwines his fingers with yours, and his thumb is rubbing your palm.

You are silent for a while, and then he asks, "What happened with you in Mirkwood, my Queen?" Your mood shifts, from flirtations and elated, to anxious and apprehensive. You are quiet, and he sighs. "I do not suspect you of anything, my Queen, I am sure you have acted faultlessly. I just need to know." You ponder his words. You know him well. "You just do not wish to be the only one ignorant when we arrive to Mirwood." You feel him nod. You press his fingers and take a deep breath. "I had nightmares of the kidnapping… Of being dragged to those ruins again… Of not being able to protect my child…" You feel his body tense behind you. "And King Thranduil would often stay with me at night. We talked about our children, and of my fears… And I could sleep afterwards…" The silence in the waggon is strained but you are suddenly certain that this conversation needed to take place now. "And that night he was anguished himself, and I could feel it in the forest, in the way trees would flutter and shake, and he came to talk to me…" "What about?" Your husband's tone is even, you feel he is consciously keeping his emotions in check. You turn around and face him. You cup his face and look into his eyes.

"Thorin, I need you to try to hear what I am saying and not react hastily." His brows are drawn together, jaws clenched, but he nods. And for once you trust him to listen to you. "The Elvenking has become my dear friend while I was there. We have a lot in common and a lot to talk about. He was distressed that I would leave his house soon..." You are scrutinizing the King's face but it is composed. "He knew he would miss our conversations, our scholarly pursuits, but you better than anybody know he is an Elf, it is not a desire or passion he feels… He does not desire me as a woman. And I was already carrying your child then. He values my presence and my mind…" His face is glowering but he is silent. You decide to take it as a good sign. "Thorin?"

Something changes in his eyes, and the tension leaves the blue irises. "I understand..." He slightly turns his head and kisses your palm that was still pressed into his cheek. "I do not understand how one cannot desire you as a woman, but I can understand being distressed when facing being separated from you." You lean in and press your lips to his in a short chaste kiss. "Every moment I spent there I wanted to go home," you are whispering, "I wanted to go back to you. I would get angrier and angrier every day but I was still yearning for you."

He slides his hand on your back and moves closer. "Do you believe me, my Lord?" "I do," his nods solemnly and earnestly. "Your son and I need King Thranduil's expertise right now, my King. And his midwife's." "I will do anything to ensure it, my heart. Even if he makes me beg for it." It is a grave promise to make and you see determination in his eyes. You kiss him again. And this time it stretches, soon your hands are roaming each other's bodies, and it is increasingly harder to breath. At some point you have to stop, and you giggle.

"I feel like an adolescent exploring passion for the first time." "And yet you are carrying my third child," his eyes are gleeful, he looks younger and happier than on any day in the last year. "Hm, how did that happen?" "Would you like me to remind you, my lady?" He is purring in your ear, and you push him away jokingly.

You are rather uncertain whether you would have allowed anything to happen between you two if circumstances were favourable. Judging by the raging fire of carnal hunger burning in you, probably yes. You thank the destiny allowing you more time for consideration, and demand the King to go to sleep. He pouts but concedes. You fall asleep in his arms and do not wake up until the Captain of Guard delicately knocks on the board of the waggon. The new day starts, and you continue your trip.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Alright… Here is the deal, my lovelies! Next comes some ****graphic content**** (not too much, not too big of a fan of yucky stuff myself, but realistic) and I decided that instead of putting markers showing the beginning and the end of the intense piece as people usually do (I hate to mark my text, I am too much of a neatfreak ;D) I will just chop it. So all the questionable stuff will go into the next one, and you can skip it if you want, and then go straight to Chapter 27 where mushy and fluffy stuff resides :) It will mess up the word count but who cares :D**

In the middle of the second day the storm comes. The wind picks up in a matter of seconds, and soon it is tearing at the roof of your waggon. You are dozing, when the waggon stops with a jerk, and the King looks in. "Zundush, a tempest seems to be approaching. We have seen some lightning at the North, it is advancing fast." He sounds worried.

You look outside. The black clouds are covering the sky, and you can hear low rumbles of thunder somewhere at the horizon. You feel tingle of the sparks that thunderstorm brings to the air, and you can smell the rain. You are still too far from Mirkwood, on the open lands, and there are no caves to find shelter.

The storms in these lands tend to be short but violent. The King sends a few guards to scout for some asylum, and in a half an hour they come back with news of an abandoned farm near by. By then you already have to climb out of your waggon, the wind so sharp that you are not certain it will not topple your transport. The King wraps his cloak around you, encircles you in his arms, and somehow you reach the two desolate buildings.

It is a small house, empty and cold, and a large barn. You find a bed inside the house, and the guard settle in the barn. Two of them stand outside the door, while the rest carry your furs and covers inside. One of them starts the fire in the stove, soot and dirt filling the house. You open the windows, and soon the wood burns merrily and the air in the house clears and warms up.

You dash around the small house, strange restlessness overcoming you, you move scarce furniture and arrange the bedding. The King returns after assigning the succession of patrol and brings more wood found at the back of the house. He closes the door behind him and look at you in amusement. You are trying to line up the pillows on your temporary bed.

He chuckles. "You are aware we are leaving this place tomorrow morning, my Queen? No need to beautify it." You make another frantic round touching everything in the house. "I just cannot seem to stop..." And then you freeze in the middle of the room.

"What is it?" He sounds worried. You can guess that your face is horrified. "I am nesting…" "Pardon?" You look into his baffled eyes and start shaking. "I am nesting. Women start doing it. Cleaning up and organizing. Before parturition." He pales. "There are still two months..."

At that moment a contraction convulses your body, and you fall ahead, pressing your hands into the wall. He rushes to you and supports your weight. You clench your teeth. That is too much pain even if it is labour. It should not start so violently.

"Kurdu?" His voice is panicked. You breathe through the pain, and it steps away. "I do not know what is happening..." "You are midwife! Who should know if not you?" You give him an angry stare. "It is not supposed to be happening! It can, but should not… There were no signs..." The second contraction runs through your body, and you groan… They are too close…

You are moaning, all your weight hanging in his arms. You press your forehead into his chest, taking deep breaths. It still does not mean anything, it could be false labour, you have observed hundreds of them.

At that moment you feel hot liquid running down your leg. You snarl long and intricate swearing in Khuzdul through your teeth. Your waters broke.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Notice the warning at the beginning of the previous chapter! Slightly graphic content ahead! :D**

You take a deep long breath in and try to straighten up. Whatever is happening, it is happening fast. You need to ensure that the King will be able to help you. He is staring at the liquid on the ground. "That is the fluid that the babe lived in for the last fourteen months. It is leaking, which means he is ready to come out." The King makes a funny choked sound.

"Thorin, look at me," he tears his gaze from the puddle and looks you in the eyes. You see sheer terror in his eyes, and you grab his shoulders. You have little time till the next wave of pain. "You will help me to deliver this child. You will do everything I tell you." His jaws clench, and there is a pause. To you it seems endless, but perhaps it lasts less than a second, and then he nods. "Tell me what to do."

"If everything is alright, it will happen on its own. But I need hot water and clean sheets. There are some in the..." The contraction hits, and you are slumping. He picks you up and holds you to himself. You bend in half and hiss. It lasts longer than the previous one, and you momentarily panic. Too close, too much. He is supporting your arms, you press the crown of your head into his chest, and then you stomp. It helps to ease the pain, and you can lift your face to him. He looks pale but composed.

"Help me to the bed. Bring the sheets from the waggon. Hot water, rugs, and noone in this house except you!" You are barking orders. He nods again. The knots of muscles on his jaw are white, but his hands are not shaking.

You know for certain none of the warriors outside has ever been present at a delivery. They are of no help. You have delivered their sons and know that they were allowed to the rooms when the babes were bathed and swaddled in immaculate blankets. You also do not wish them to be familiar with their Queen's nether regions.

You breath through three more contractions when the pain reaches the level when you cannot control screams. You grab his hands and in a short moment of relief you look into his eyes. "I will be screaming, a lot, it is natural, it is just pain, it has to be here..." You clench your teeth, and he squeezes your hands. "I might be swearing and cursing you… Do not take it close to your heart..." He nods. He so far did not say a single word since the waters broke. You have no time to let him adjust. "Talk to me, Thorin, I need you to keep on talking…"

"What about?" His voice is raspy, choked. "Anything..." The next one is coming, and you brace yourself. You mewl from the first tense spasms and then scream. He grows even paler, and you yell at him, "You are supposed to talk! Aid me, curse you! I am birthing your child!" Two of the Khuzdul swearings you add are probably not suitable even for a brothel.

They seem to shake the King out of his stupour though. He grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes. "We are going to be alright, kurdu. I will help you. We will do it..." "It is all your fault, if you did not have all this wide build, you thick-skulled oaf…" He suddenly chuckles. "Haven't heard this one in years." "Oh curse you! You will not hear it again! You just could not keep it in your pants! You just had to give me another one! I am not bedding you ever again!"

"Do not be dim, kurdu. Six weeks from now you will be tearing clothes off me," if he is trying to distract you from pain, he is succeeding. "Oh you just watch me, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of..." The pain overwhelms you, and you scream, biting into a pillow. "Take the cursed armour off me!" He helps you and sheds his own as well. You grab handfuls of his tunic and whine. He rubs your back, and you mewl gratefully. And then the new wave of swearing erupts from you, and he hikes up his brows. "Where did you even learn these, my gracious Queen?' "I attend to your citizens in all parts of the city, you dimwit!" You are still pathetic when it comes to swearing in your native tongue. In Khuzdul you feel liberated.

You count time between contractions. You predict you have no more than two hours before the babe is ready for birth. You need to prepare the King. "Thorin, you will have to deliver him." The hands holding you jerk. "It is not hard, you just need to make sure the cord is not wrapped around his neck or he will suffocate. And you need to make sure he breathes… And afterwards there is the placenta, the sack where the babe resides, it has to be delivered afterwards… And there is the cord connecting the babe to me…" You lift your eyes and see that the King is close to fainting. His eyes are unfocused, and his breathing is shallow and irregular.

You slap him across the face, and he blinks. "The cord, the breathing, the sack," he repeats, and suddenly his blue eyes are sharp and calm.

"I will help you, kurdu. We will bring him here together." You have no time to proclaim your ardent love for him as you are screaming again, clenching his arms and cursing his ancestors to the seventh generation. "Never again! I am not letting you touch me ever again! You can parade naked in front of me, and do your purring and looking under you cursed brow, no more of that!" He is making gentle shushing noises. "Oh do shut up with your comforting! It is all your fault!"

The pain cuts you across, and you are wailing. A small part of your mind is cold and professional, and you observe your own torment from outside. You have less than an hour and a half before the babe comes. You know you will not have to push. Quite the opposite, you will need to try to slow him down.

"Why did I even let you put your hands on me? You and your prolific Dwarven semen!" He is rubbing your back. You are standing on all four and curse his member. And then since you do not feel you got your point though, each of his testicles separately. He decides that humour is his only salvation at this stage. "I remember that is exactly the position that got you into this predicament, my lady."

"Curse you and all the positions you took me in! And no, it was on the window sill..." Your loud screams interrupt your recollection, and you start crying. The pain reaches the levels when you stop understanding where you are.

You are weeping and sag on the floor from the edge of the bed. He picks you up and pulls you to himself. You are screaming and wailing, the periods of rest become shorter, and you have a few moments left to talk him through the rest. "I will lie down and you will have to look there… If you can see the crown then it is time…" "The crown?" "The head, you oaf! The head of your son… When the head comes out..." You are talking short spasmodic breaths. The King is seemingly doing the same. "Make sure the neck is not choked… You need to support it... The babes' necks..." ""I remember that part. What else? You have little time."

"Do not order me around! I am the midwife here, you cursed fecund Dwarf!" "And I have just gained the new appreciation for your profession, my lady, but you need to haste." "The body will come out too. You need to help him… The shoulders..." The pain chars you, and you cry and hide into him. Your body is quaking. "Please, please, help me… Stop it… I cannot anymore..." You are sobbing, and he is holding you to him. "What can I do?! I will do anything! Just tell me..." "Nothing, just hold me..." He cannot do anything, it has to take its course.

"And then there is the cord… It connects him to the sack, there will be a lot of blood, do not worry… Then some time will pass, and the sack will have to come out too…" He is nodding. "If I am not conscious, you will have to pull it out, gently…" "What?" "As long as there is not too much blood, even if I am faint, it is alright..."

And then you realize something. You are not preparing him for any of the many possible unfortunate outcomes. "If I do not breath or something does not seem right with me..." ""No!" "Thorin, you need to swear to me now, our son is all that matters..." "No! Do not speak of..." "Thorin!" You are yelling at him. "Show me I can trust you! Swear to me! Our son comes first! Swear to me!" He is shaking, his eyes livid, lips white. "Prove to me I am right to trust you! You will make the right decision!" He takes a few short breaths and then nods. His voice is hollow, "Our son comes first." You breathe out in relief, and then the new wave of pain comes.

Two and a half hours later you understand it is time. Both of you are exhausted, and you can see blood on the King's lip when he bit exceptionally hard into it when a terrifying convulsion was wrecking through your body. You also have bitten his arm, twice. You have insulted his member endless amount of times, professed your undying love for him even more abundantly and cursed each and every of his ancestors dating back to Dain I.

You feel the familiar pressure at your pelvis, and you rasp, "It is time." He kneels in front of the bed, and a ridiculous thought comes to your mind. One of the midwives you served under in Gondor claimed that the one reason why men are not allowed to be present at birth is that seeing their wives in such circumstances forever kills in them any desire to bed them. You momentarily feel relieved, it means you will never have to go through this again. And then you immediately start crying harder. Your dress is bunched up around your hips, and you call your husband's name.

He looks at you from behind your bent knee. His eyes are widened and black from the dilated pupils. "I can see the head." His voice is shaking. And you suddenly blabber, "But you will still want to bed me after that? Promise you will still bed me after that!" You know he would probably promise you the Moon at this moment but you need to hear it.

He stares at you in shock, and then suddenly his face is serious and sincere. "I swear to you if you accept me I will bed you every night from now till the day I die. And now let us deliver our son." You nod and clench your teeth.

The King receives his third child in his hands, first the head, and then one shoulder after another, and the whole lean body of the second prince of Erebor is in his father's palms. You lift your head and rasp in anguish, "Is he breathing?" Dain's scream is piercing, full of life and anger, and golden sparks spray from where his skin connects with his father's hands, they hit the King into the face, run around the room, light up the small house, and then Dain's second scream is even louder.

The walls of the building start shaking from the surge of his magic, it feels the small house will collapse any moment, and then the King speaks in a calm voice, "Dain, look at me. It is I, your adad, it is alright." The vibration stops, and you see the King's face light up with a smile. They are looking into each other's eyes, and the King is laughing, tears running down his face. And then he lifts his eyes at you.

"What do I do now?" You fall back into the pillows and talk him through cutting the cord. You desperately want to hold your son, but you have to wait. Then you feel the last contraction, and you know he needs to help you with the sack. "Give him to me, Thorin, and I am sorry for the next part." You accept a warm little body in your hands, and the King kneels again. You pray that the healer in Gondor was wrong.

And then you eyes finally fall at your second son. You are looking at each other, and you smile. "Hello, my ghivasha, my treasure, my boy." You feel the placenta is out, the King sighs in relief, and you can finally lower our legs. You cannot take your eyes off your son and stroke his cheek. You both are covered in slime and blood, and you ask the King for warm water.

The next hour passes in washing, the King endlessly helpful and gentle with both of you, and putting the babe to your breast for the first time. The King is astonishingly curious. He has previously observed the nursing but it was in your chambers, when the days were specifically chosen when all the participants were in a good mood, special dress with lacy collar on you, pillows and cloths arranges around. Right now you are nursing your child on a makeshift bed, in an abandoned farm house, in the middle of the storm that none of you noticed, all of you disheveled, though clean, exhausted, and entirely and utterly happy.

You are wrapping Dain in a blanket, his strange green eyes already closed, when you feel a surge of your own magic in you. The King is half-lying near you on the bed. You tap the end of his nose and a golden spark jollily jumps from the tip of your finger to his skin. He hikes his brows, and you chuckle. "So it is back," he feigns grumpiness, and you chuckle again. You gently touch Dain's forehead and a vague imprint of his sensations floods your mind. "It is back. I can hear him now."

The King gazes at his son. "And what is he saying?" "That he loves his adad," the King's blue eyes fly to your face, "And that he wants to go home now." The King smiles to you, and you lean in and press your mouth to his. All is perfect in the world, and the three of you settle to sleep. The rustling of the rain outside lulls you, the fingers of your hands intertwined, hearts beating in accord, the small body of your son between you two.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: And this is the last chapter! There will be a smutty epilogue, of course (you know me:), but rather than that, we are done with this story, my lovelies! Thank you all for the awesome ride! I'm tearing up from all my appreciation for your reading and reviews! Love you all! That was so much fun! And drama! And fun! :D**

You come out of your first bath back in Erebor and find your small family standing around Dain's bassinet in a circle. Three dark heads are tilted in an identical gesture. "He is rather small," Thror's voice is hushed. "He is big for a babe, he will be taller than you when he grows up," the King's voice is laced with pride. "I like the hair," Unna is cooing. "It is like amad's, and wavy too." They simultaneously tilt their heads on the other side, and you giggle.

The King lifts his eyes and smiles to you. He has taken a hasty bath before, his hair is still wet. He looks exhausted, you at least managed to nod off in the waggon with Dain on the road on your hurried return to Erebor. It is early morning, your older children are still in their sleeping clothes.

"Children, you need to go change and have your breakfast. And adad and I need to have some sleep." "Can we come back after breakfast?" You are surprised to hear the question come from Thror and not Unna who tends to demand who she wants straight forward. He is usually very decorous and poised, his manners excessively considerate and tactful towards you. He is still looking at his brother. You remember how even with Unna, though he was very young, he was overprotective and attentive from the start.

"I will send for you at the first opportunity, and now go." They leave, and when they are already at the door the King pulls you into himself and his lips fall on yours. You hum, and catch the glimpse of two positively radiant faces by the door, eyes wide open, happy white toothed grins. "Go, you two..." Unna squeals in delight, they are laughing and close the door behind them.

He lets you go. You realize that was a blatant show for the children, and you smack his shoulder. "Lovely demonstration, my Lord." He guffaws and flops on the bed. "What is even lovelier is that you assented to it completely and readily." You are glaring at him, and he pats the bed near him.

You give an exaggerated sigh and climb under the sheets. They are fresh and cool, and you close your eyes in a bliss. He moves closer and wraps his arms around you. You settle on his chest, your stomach almost gone, and you can press yourself into him firmly. Without thinking you wrap your leg around his, settling in a familiar pose, but then you freeze. He chuckles.

You two are quiet, you are listening to Dain's snoring in the bassinet. He is making funny little noises in his sleep, and you remember that Thror was the same. Unna was so quiet that you would get up every five minutes to check on her. Eventually the King threatened to tie you to the bed if you did not stop.

Suddenly your mind makes a sharp turn and leaps to the image of the King actually tying you to bed with a silken scarf, predatory gleam in his eyes, his hands roaming your naked body. The said body tenses, and then you feel sharp pain in your abdomen. Honestly, you should know better than constrict those muscles in the next few weeks. You hiss and shift under the covers.

"What is it?" The King's voice is muffled, he is already almost asleep. You pat his chest, "Sleep, my Lord..." "Wake me up when you are feeding..." He is mumbling, long black lashes flutter, eyes closed, and you give yourself a moment to look at him. Dark shadows lie under his eyes, face thinned and exhausted, but the line of the lips is soft, at ease, and the brow is unclouded. His hand covering yours on his chest is relaxed, and you press your ear to listen to his even, strong heartbeat.

Three weeks later you are certain you were blessed with a miracle babe. While you were constantly worried with Thror, since he was your first-born and no amount of professional knowledge prepares you for the anguish of caring for your own child, and Unna was a demanding and fussy infant, with Dain one can sometimes almost forget that there is a newborn babe in the Erebor Halls.

He nurses with a surprising regularity and ease and then falls asleep. He is always content, and after two weeks he starts sleeping through the night. He is equally happy to be taken out of his bassinet and left in it to his own devices. If the latter happens he entertains himself by conjuring a golden globe floating above his head and staring at its direction. His wondrous green eyes are still not focused but sometimes it seems that he is so much more aware than most children in his age.

His favourite pastime is those few quiet hours that the King always manages to find during the day to spend with him. They lie on the bed together, and the King is talking in a soft voice and tickles the small palm. The little fingers curl up, not yet capable to grasp, and the prince makes funny gurgling noises. As little as he looks like his father or a Dwarf for that matter, his legs definitely longer in proportion to his narrow body than those of his older siblings were at birth, the King seems to have developed a special connection with him. Perhaps, the delivery in such unusual circumstances gifted them with an additional bond.

As for you and the King, you two seem to do everything possible to avoid any sort of clarification of your current relationships. You sleep in the same bed, he kisses you before bedtime, and you reciprocate, but it never goes further than a simple expression of tenderness. Short chaste kisses are exchanged during the day, over Dain's crib, in the morning at breakfast, to the exuberant delight of your children, sometimes during the day he presses his lips to your knuckles or your temple.

Your husband is merry and contented these days. A small smile is always playing on his lips. He spends all the time possible with his children. This afternoon you were woken up from your midday nap by loud thrilled squeals. You peek through the door and see all three of them wrestling on the floor of the passage, the King apparently having been ambushed and toppled on the floor. The children are straddling him, and he is feigning inability to oppose the tickling attack of their small hands. He is roaring with laughter, and you open the door. Your fists are on your hips and you are glaring, and the three pair of eyes stare at you. "I am napping. At least I was until the three of you did not wake me up." Three dark curly heads drop in shame. "I think a punishment is in order," you leap ahead and attack the ribs of first Unna, and then Thror. They are shrieking, and then you switch to the King's unprotected sides. He oomphs and attempts to squirm away. His eyes are laughing, and then he catches the back of your head and pulls you into a short but ardent kiss.

The world goes silent, except for the roar of blood in your ears. He lets you go but then notices the dazed expression on your face. Spurred by his initial success, he pulls you in again, and you grab handfuls of his waistcoat. At the back of your mind you realize that the children are sneaking away, Thror pulling Unna's sleeve, and you moan into his mouth to halt him. Or perhaps to encourage him. You really do not know anymore.

The squeaking from the open door of the bedchambers pulls you out of the dizzying heat of his kiss, and you scamper back. It is time to nurse Dain, and you cowardly dart back to your youngest child. Your thoughts are confused. You know one thing for certain. There is no pain, though your inner walls are clenched, and you are pressing your thighs together. You will have to make some sort of a decision soon.

In a thousandth time you are pondering the current state of your marriage, sitting on the bed and brushing your hair. The King walks into the bedchambers, and pulling off his outergrament he stretches on the bed. He groans, readjusting some tired muscles in his back, and then stares at the canopy above his head. You peek from the corner of your eyes and continue moving your brush.

"If you allow, my Queen, I would want to be present at the birth of our next son as well." You are so shocked that the brush theatrically falls out of your hand. "I beg you pardon, my Lord?" He turns his head to you. "Othin, when he is born I would like to be there. Obviously, we should try to avoid such dramatic circumstances as with Dain, but I would like to be there. If that is to be your will." His face is calm and pensive, and you are gaping.

And then you hiss, mindful of Dain sleeping in his bassinet. "There might not be another one, my Lord. I am more than four decades old! Perhaps those were indeed nightmares and not prophetic dreams… And besides to have another child we would have to..." You are vaguely waving your hands in the air. You are not certain what you were going to say. He is looking at you in a complacent amusement, his hands on his chest, the wide body relaxed. He is delectable, and you bite your lip. He is not even moving a muscle, and you are already losing. Or winning. Depends on how you look at it.

You turn away from him, pick up your brush and pointedly go back to tending to your hair. He chuckles behind you. "What do you think the age difference between them was in your dreams, my Lady? Was it at least six years?" You groan.

Suddenly a pair of arms wraps around your middle, and he pulls you to him. You suppress the undignified yelp. You do not want to wake the babe. He rolls you on your back and presses you into the sheet with his weight. The blue eyes are blazing, and he catches your mouth in a passionate unrestrained kiss. In a matter of seconds you are moaning and arching into him. And then he tears his lips off yours and pinning you down with is a burning stare he growls, "I am letting you hold on to your illusions for now, my insolent Queen, but when your six weeks are up, you are mine."

And then he rolls off your body and leaves for the bath chambers. You are splayed on the bed, legs spread, panting, liquid heat in your lower stomach. You are inclined to agree with the King at this point. All your previous musings and considerations regarding your marriage were illusions. You are completely and irrevocably his.


	28. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

_Seven weeks after Dain's birth_

The King enters your bedchambers grumbling under his nose, you think you hear some mild swearings in Khuzdul in the low irked voice. The door slams behind him, and he is pulling his doublet off himself. He gets tangled as he has not opened all of the silver buttons. He gets even more irritated and jerks it off. You think you hear fabric tearing.

You are sitting in the bed patiently in your nightdress, your lower body under covers and sheets, your shoulders propped on pillows. Finally having triumphed over the offensive piece of clothing, the King throws it across the room and turns around to where your youngest son's bassinet is usually put. He is met with an empty space. The King is staring at it.

"Where is Dain?" "In his new nursery, at the end of the passage. I assigned Unna's old nursemaid to him." The King is still standing in the same pose. "Why?" "So we do not wake him up." His shoulders grow tense. He slowly turns around and finally has a good look at you.

The new nightdress has a very low cut, thin straps of intricate lace, bodice gauzy. The very slight tint of teal of the gossamer compliments your skin and the copper of your strands. You have let your hair loose and Nyrnala is on your collar bones for the first time since it was taken off you in Mirkwood. You can see the King's throat move in a spasmodic gulp.

"I am very grateful, my lord, that you have not pressured me into returning to my marital duties earlier. To think of it you have not mentioned it for full four weeks," you are very decorous, and he narrows his eyes, "But I am fully recovered now and as long as we are careful..." Your voice trails away, and you give him a composed smile.

His face suddenly contorts in anger. "I am afraid I have to decline your generous offer, my Queen. Perhaps you should have consulted me before you went through all this trouble organizing it." He turns on his heels and disappears in the bath chambers, closing the door behind himself with a deafening bang. You jerk, and then you are frozen in shock.

You are too stunned to cry, you are trembling. His rejection felt like a punch into your stomach. You are taking short shallow breaths in. You obviously do not understand something. He cannot possibly have lost his desire for you. Why would he have wooed you all these weeks if he did not yearn for you anymore? There were short but ardent kisses, seemingly accidental touches, heated looks. He had never before had to court you, and now he was seemingly enjoying this new game, small tokens of affection presented to you, a ribbon, a brooch, and several times you even found flowers on your pillow. The little gestures left you giddy and even more enamoured. You climb out of the bed.

You slightly open the door in the bath chambers and find him sitting on the step leading to your large tub that you had occupied together so often in the past. His palms are pressed to his face, elbows on his knees, and he lifts his eyes at you. The expression is pained and remorseful. He momentarily closes his eyes and exhale. "Forgive me, zundush, I was unfair."

You tiptoe to him, the floor is cold, and sit cautiously near him on the step. He picks up your hand and strokes your knuckles with his thumb. "It was cruel and unjust, forgive me." You frown. "I will, if I understand why you were so unfair. I would have expected you to..." You are not certain what to say. He nods and clenches his jaw.

"I do not wish for you to feel you are obliged to do it," he finally starts speaking, and his tone is grave, "You have to know how much I appreciate you forgiving me and accepting me back as your husband. But if your desire for me has not returned, I can… live with it."

You are staring at him. "How is me wearing a titillating dress and moving our babe to a different room is not a sign of desire?" "It is all very well thought out and..." He hesitates. "And?" "Cold." You emit a surprised chuckle. "Are you calling me frigid, my lord?" He looks at you askew. And then you start laughing.

You cannot help it, he looks so sour. You suddenly feel light and confident. You wrap your arms around his neck and murmur, "Would you have felt better, my lord, if I leapt at you once you entered the room and started pulling your clothes off?" He pouts, and you start laughing even harder. "Are you honestly feeling I am offering you my body out of obligation?" He tries to move out of your embrace, but you do not let him.

And then you swiftly straddle him. You have returned to your swording practice a week ago, and your body already feels more agile. He has no choice but grab your buttocks to support you. You settle in his embrace and tread your fingers into his hair.

His body reacts immediately, and you feel his length growing where your center is pressed into him. His eyes are darkening. "I thought, my lord, we have agreed that upon six weeks after our son's birth you were to reclaim me as your wife." His breathing speeds up. "And I thought you were not willing, my lady. Nothing in these seven weeks hinted on you being overwhelmed with yearning for me," his tone is grouchy.

You grab his ears and rub them in your hands. "Are you feeling insecure, my Lord?" And then you use his ears as reigns to make him nod. He chuckles. "Yes? Oh Mahal, that is unfortunate. Are you feeling you are not alluring for your estranged wife anymore, my lord?" You pulls the ears again and make him shake his head. And he chuckles again. "No? Perhaps you should have asked her. Have you honestly thought that barking at her while she is anxiously sitting in your bed half naked and shaking out of nervous anticipation is a vastly better idea than trying to waken her desire with some caresses?" You force him to nod again, and this time he twists his head out of your grip.

And then he catches the back of your head in his scorching palm and pulls you to his lips. The kiss is desperate and passionate, and you arch your back and press your body into him. "Forgive me, I was a fool…" He is murmuring into your skin, pressing greedy open-mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulders.

You do not wish to talk. You two have done so much talking in the last year and a half that you feel it has been enough for a lifetime. You just want to touch, and taste, and kiss, and... Your thoughts jumble, he is sucking on the muscle between your neck and shoulder. "Do you forgive me?" The hands are sliding on your back, caressing the shoulder blades, and then one of the large palms slides on your backside. "Kurdu?" "Oh for the love of Mahal… Yes, I do! And now please, do shut up, my lord!"

He finally smirks, and you catch his mouth and grab the hem of his tunic. You pull it off and whine from the ecstasy of finally touching his searing skin. You run your palms up and down the hard muscles and grind your hips into him. He gasps and tries to get up. "No, we are staying..." You are practically growling at him. You push your torso away from him and balancing on his lap you pull the strings on his breeches. "Kurdu, the bed.." "No! No time…" Your fingers encircle his member, and he groans loudly and drops his head back. Which you find very fortunate and bite into his neck.

And then you shift, and his tip presses into your folds through the gauzy material. You have taken a long bath today, with horsetail and centaury, and you have been applying the balm of shepherd's purse and chamomile for the last few days, but you expect a vast discomfort. You bite into your bottom lip and start lifting yourself to pull your dress from between you two and to take him in.

His hands squeeze your hips, and he halts you. You whine in disappointment. You are burning for him, your dress drenched where it got caught between your center and his length, and you are frenetic. "Please, Thorin, please..." His eyes widen, and he is staring at you. You get suddenly angry. "I am willing, is it not clear? Stop doubting me!"

He catches your mouth and kisses you hotly. You press your palms into his shoulders, get up on your knees above him, and his hips buck up. He picks up the bottom of the dress and helps you out of it. You wrap your arms around his neck, and his kisses are suddenly gentle and restrained. "Kurdu, I do not wish any pain for you..." He remembers the first times after Thror and Unna. With Unna you had to stop in the middle and postpone your reunion. You were too hasty, too eager for him and had not waited the full six weeks.

It has nothing to compare with the hunger you are feeling right now. You are dying for him, all those months in Mirkwood, and then the estrangement upon your return, the seven weeks of the slow build up, you grab his member and lower yourself on him in a gradual but confident movement. There is stretching, and there is feeling of fullness, but there is no pain.

He sobs and buries his face into your neck. You both are still for a few seconds. And then you press your lips to his temple. And start moving. His whole body is shaking, and he buries his hands in your hair. "Kurdu, oh, my heart…"

You control the movements, slow rise and slow push down on him. You are immediately sore, and it is the most wonderful of sensations. You drop your head back and revel in the feeling of completeness. Up and down, always with him, always linked, nothing to separate you two, union of rhythm and bodies, skin to skin, heart to heart… You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him even closer. The massive arms encircle you, and he is crushing you into him. Your hips move slowly and deliberately, and he is moaning. No words left, no thoughts, just the two of you, and your heat, and your warmth, and love, and trust.

He shatters, his seed rushing into you, your climax simultaneous, your walls around him, his face buried in your neck… You both are still and silent, and you feel tears running down your face. You rub your temple to his, and he gives out a long raspy sigh.

You wish to say something, to tell him that all is well now, that the two of you made it through, that your bond survived, that you love him and trust him, and he is your life, your heart, your husband and your lover. But then you move away and look into his brilliant blue eyes with tears glistening in them, and you know no words are needed. You press your lips to his, and he returns your kiss. Loving someone is giving them the power to break your heart, but trusting them not to. And you know your heart is safe.

THE END

**A/N: I decided that ending it with a quote from my favourite Julianne Moore, another gorgeous redhead, is more than appropriate :) **

**Thank you all for being with me on this journey! Love you all :') **


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